THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GUT  OF 

Frances  E,  Adams 

and 
Ifrs.  Helen  Barr 


GAVE  MILUIS  m 


BESyTifyL  WIFE, 


Ruskin's  Life  Sacrifice  to  an 
Artist. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  PICTURE. 


WAS  PAINTING  THE  FAIREST  FACE 
IN   ENGLAND. 


A    L.ove>  Wlilcli   BroiijjrI»t    Happiness 

and    Prosperity   to   a    No^v 

.Great    Man. 


To  few  ihehhas  come  the  success  that 
Sir  John  Millals,  Royal  Academician, 
the  most  prosperous  painter  in  all  Eng- 
land, has  attained,  and  to  few  has  been 
given  the  same  amount  of  romance  in 
life  and  the  same  prominence,  at  a  very 
early  age.  Just  now  the  very  greatest 
honor  that  can  be  extended  to  a  Brit- 
iah  subject  in  the  world^of  art,  the  pres- 
idency of  the  Royal  Academy,  has  been 
tendered  him,  and  the  seat  that  Sir 
Frederic  Leighton,  lately  dead,  so  long 
ably  filled.  And  once  again  Is  revived 
the  well-nigh  forgotten  story  of  now 
John  Ruskin,  England's  great  critic, 
gave  hla  own  beautiful  wife  to  the 
young  artist  who,  while  painting  her 
face,  fell  in  love  with  her  and  was  loved 
in  turn.  It  Is  her  exqui-sltely  lovely 
face  that  is  pictured  in  MiHais'  most 
widely  known  canvas,  "The  Huguenot 
Lover."  The  other  face,  that  of  the 
man  about  who.se  arm  she  ties  the 
"  "broidered  'kerchief,"  \a  the  Idealized 
face  of  the  painter  himself. 

If  you  s-houM  step  into  S-ir  John  Mil- 
lais'  s^uperb  house  in  South  Kensington, 
London,  a  house  that  he  has  built  nlm- 
self — and  It  is  not  only  superb  archi- 
tecturally, but  filled  with  fine  exampk-s 
of  m,odern  art,  in  canvases  as  well  as 
furniture  and  decorations,  for  Millais' 
wraith  has  been  for  years  very  large — 
you  would  not  recognize  in  the  matron 
of  this  great  hous'ehold,  a  typical  Brit- 
ish wife,  her  hair  silvered,  her  form 
round  and'  the  mother  of  many  daugh- 
ters, the  dainty,  clinging  figure  of  the 


Roman  Catholic  maiden  in  the  pic- 
ture. Yet  they  are  one  and  the  same. 
The  thein  plain  John  Everett  M.illais, 
boy  artist,  but  even)  at  that  time  the 
wielder  of  a  brusih  of  geniuss,  painted  her 
as  she  then  was,  faithfully,  with  every 
line  of  her  sweet  face  told  in  the  col- 
ored pigments.  From  that  hour  he  fell 
in  love  with  her,  though  she  was  an- 
other man's  wife. 
The  other  man  was  no  one  else  than 


the  even  at  that  time  famous  John  Rus- 
I  kin.  An  anchorite  always,  a  hermit 
among  his  books,  this  art  philosopher 
was  in  no  wise  fitted  for  a  married  life, 
and  least  of  all  to  be  wedded  to  the  sym- 
pathetic, affectionate  little  English 
woman  who  fcrund  in  him  only  a 
gloomy,  moody  savant,  irresponsive  to 
her  caresses.  Posing  at  first  for  Mill- 
ais as  a  diversion,  she  found  numberless 
attractions  in  the  cleVer  young  fellow  of 
the  world,  and  if  Ruskin  had  not  sud- 
denly awakened  to  the  fact  that  his  wife 
had  begun  to  love  elsewhere,  there 
would  have  been  a  broken  heart  and  a 
spoiled  life. 

But  the  moody  philosopher  knew  how 
to  bear  defeat,  and  besides,  so  engrossed 
was  he  in  all  his  absorbing  studies  that 
a  wife  did  not  matter  much  to  him. 
With  hardly  a  moment's  hesitation, 
once  he  was  aware  that  the  woman 
really  cared  for  Millais  and  could  be 
happy  with  him,  he  handed  her  over— 
literally— to  his  friend.  "If  you  lov« 
her,  she  is  yours,"  the  great  critic  is  re* 
ported  to  have  generously  said. 

A  formal  divorce  was  pushed  through 
the  English  courts  as  rapidly  as  poS' 
sible,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  granted  Mrs 
Ruskin  became  Mrs.  John  Millais 
Without  a  single  pang  of  regret  th« 
author  of  "Modern  Painters"  turnec 
back  to  his  books  and  left  the  younj 
couple  to  make  their  way,  a  way  thai 
was  now  assured. 

And  a  very  happy  marriage  It  proved 
A  family  soon  sprang  up  under  the  Mil- 
lais rooftree,  and  John  EJverett  Millais 
grew  more  and  more  prosperous  ever.> 
year.  He  always  has  attributed  his 
success  in  life  to  this  romance  of  his 
boyhood,  and  the  fact  that  his  wife,  ever 
though  she  was  not  his  then,  stood  ic 
the  center  of  the  little  canvas  that  haj 
since  become  so  renowned. 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  the  ex- 
act size  of  this  picture,  now  in  a  private 
gallery  in  the  town  of  Preston,  England 
is  three  feet  two  inches  by  two  feet  one 
inch,  and  that  Millais  got  $750  for  it 
$250  more  being  afterward  added  by  th< 
purchaser,  a  picture  dealer,  after  th< 
engraving  made  from  it  by  the  celebrat- 
ed engraver,  T.  O.  Barlow,  had  scored  a 
great  success  and  made  much  money 
The  value  of  the  original  canvas  to-daj 
would  probably  be  thousands.— Ne^w 
York  World. 


SESAME   AND    LILIES 


THREE  LECTURES  BY 


JOHN    EUSKIiT,    LL.D. 


1.  OF  KING f^"  TREASURIES. 

2.  OF  QUEENS'  GARDENS. 

3.  OF  THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE. 


EEVISED   AND   ENLARGED   EDITION. 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN    WILEY   &   SONS, 

15  ASTOR  PLACE. 

1879 


LOAN   STACK 

GIFT 


4^30    & 


PR 
5:2-40 

PREFACE.  ^^\^ 


Being  now  fifty-one  years  old,  and  little  likely  to  change 
my  mind  hereafter  on  any  important  subject  of  thought 
(unless  through  weakness  of  age),  I  wish  to  publish  a  con- 
nected series  of  such  parts  of  my  works  as  now  seem  to 
me  right,  and  likely  to  be  of  permanent  use.  In  doing  so 
I  shall  omit  much,  but  not  attempt  to  mend  what  I  think 
worth  reprinting.  A  young  man  necessarily  writes  other- 
wise than  an  old  one,  and  it  would  be  worse  than  wasted 
time  to  try  to  recast  the  juvenile  language :  nor  is  it  to  be 
thought  that  I  am  ashamed  even  of  what  I  cancel ;  for 
great  pai-t  of  my  earlier  work  was  rapidly  written  for  tem- 
porary purposes,  and  is  now  mmecessary,  though  true, 
even  to  truism.  What  I  wrote  about  religion,  was,  on  the 
contrary,  painstaking,  and,  I  think,  forcible,  as  compared 
with  most  religious  writing;  especially  in  its  frankness 
and  fearlessness :  but  it  was  w^hoUy  mistaken ;  for  I  had 
beon  educated  in  the  doctrines  of  a  narrow  sect,  and  had 
read  history  as  obliquely  as  sectarians  necessarily  must. 
Mingled  among  these  either  unnecessaiy  or  erroneous 


151 


IV  PEEFACB. 

statements,  I  find,  indeed,  some  that  might  be  still  of 
value;  but  these,  in  mj  earlier  books,  dibfigured  by 
affected  language,  partly  through  the  desire  to  be  thought 
a  fine  writer,  and  partly,  as  in  the  second  volume  of 
Modern  Painters,  in  the  notion  of  returning  as  far  as  1 
(!Ould  to  what  I  thought  the  better  style  of  old  English 
literature,  especially  to  that  of  my  then  favourite,  in  prose, 
Kichard  Hooker. 

For  these  reasons,  though,  as  respects  either  art,  policy, 
or  morality  as  distinct  from  religion,  I  not  only  still  hold, 
but  would  even  wish  strongly  to  re-afiirm  the  substance  of 
what  I  said  in  my  earliest  books,  I  shall  reprint  scarcely 
anything  in  this  series  out  of  the  first  and  second  volumes 
of  Modern  Painters  ;  and  shall  omit  much  of  the  Seven 
Lamjps  and  Stones  of  Venice  :  but  all  my  books  written 
within  the  last  fifteen  years  will  be  republished  without 
change,  as  new  editions  of  them  are  called  for,  with  here 
and  there  perhaps  an  additional  note,  and  having  their 
text  divided,  for  convenient  reference,  into  paragraphs 
consecutive  through  each  volume.  I  shall  also  throw  to- 
gether the  shorter  fragments  that  bear  on  each  other,  and 
fill  in  with  such  unprinted  lectures  or  studies  as  seem  to 
I  no  worth  preserving,  so  as  to  keep  the  volumes,  on  an 
average,  composed  of  about  a  hundred  leaves  each. 


PREFACE.  t; 

The  first  book  of  which  a  new  edition  is  required 
chances  to  be  Sesame  and  Lilies,  from  which  I  now  de- 
tach the  old  preface,  about  the  Alps,  for  use  elsewhere ; 
and  to  which  I  add  a  lecture  given  in  Ireland  on  a  sub- 
ject closely  connected  with  that  of  the  book  itself.  I  am 
glad  that  it  should  be  the  first  of  the  complete  series,  for 
many  reasons ;  though  in  now  looking  over  these  two  lec- 
tures, I  am  painfully  struck  by  the  waste  of  good  work  in 
them.  They  cost  me  much  thought,  and  much  strong 
emotion ;  but  it  was  foolish  to  suppose  that  I  could  rouse 
my  audiences  in  a  little  while  to  any  sympathy  with  tlio 
temper  into  which  I  had  brought  myself  by  years  of 
thinking  over  subjects  full  of  pain  ;  while,  if  I  missed  my 
purpose  at  the  time,  it  was  little  to  be  hoped  I  could  at- 
tain it  afterwards ;  since  phrases  written  for  oral  delivery 
become  ineffective  when  quietly  read.  Yet  I  should  only 
take  away  what  good  is  in  them  if  I  tried  to  translate  them 
into  the  language  of  books ;  nor,  indeed,  could  I  at  all 
have  done  so  at  the  time  of  their  delivery,  my  thoughts 
then  habitually  and  impatiently  putting  themselves  into 
foi-ms  fit  only  for  emphatic  speech :  and  thus  I  am  startled, 
in  my  review  of  them,  to  find  that,  though  there  is  much, 
(forgive  me  the  impertinence)  which  seems  to  me  accurately 
and  energetically  said,  there  is  scarcely  anything  put  in  a 


VI  PREFACE. 

form  to  be  generally  convincing,  or  even  easily  intelli 
gible :  and  I  can  well  imagine  a  reader  laying  down  the 
book  without  being  at  all  moved  by  it,  still  less  guided,  to 
any  definite  course  of  action. 

I  think,  however,  if  I  now  say  briefly  and  clearly  what 
I  meant  my  hearers  to  imderstand,  and  what  I  wanted,  and 
Btill  would  fain  have,  them  to  do,  there  may  afterwards  be 
found  some  better  service  in  the  passionately  written  text. 

The  first  Lecture  says,  or  tries  to  say,  that,  life  being 
very  short,  and  the  quiet  hours  of  it  few,  we  ought  to 
waste  none  of  them  in  reading  valueless  books ;  and  that 
valuable  books  should,  in  a  civilized  country,  be  within 
the  reach  of  every  one,  printed  in  excellent  form,  for  a  just 
price ;  but  not  in  any  vile,  vulgar,  or,  by  reason  of  small- 
ness  of  type,  physically  injurious  form,  at  a  vile  price.  For 
we  none  of  us  need  many  books,  and  those  which  we  need 
ought  to  be  clearly  printed,  on  the  best  paper,  and  strongly 
bound.  And  though  we  are,  indeed,  now,  a  wretched  and 
poverty-struck  nation,  and  hardly  able  to  keep  soul  and 
body  together,  still,  as  no  person  in  decent  circumstances 
would  put  on  his  table  confessedly  bad  wine,  or  bad  meat 
witliout  being  ashamed,  so  he  need  not  have  on  liis  slielvea 
ill-printed  or  loosely  and  wretchedly-stitched  books ;  for, 
tliough  few  can  be  rich,  yet  every  man  who  h<:inestly  exerts 


PREFACE.  VL 

himself  may,  1  thiiik,  still  provide,  for  himself  and  hia 
family,  good  shoes,  good  gloves,  strong  haniess  for  his  cart 
or  carriage  horses,  and  stout  leather  binding  for  his  books. 
And  I  would  urge  upon  every  young  man,  as  the  beginning 
of  his  due  and  wise  provision  for  his  household,  to  obtain  aa 
soon  as  he  can,  by  the  severest  economy,  a  restricted,  ser- 
viceable, and  steadily — ^however  slowly^ncreasing,  series 
of  books  for  use  through  life ;  making  his  little  library, 
of  all  the  furniture  in  his  room,  the  most  studied  and  deco- 
rative piece ;  every  volume  having  its  assigned  place,  like 
a  little  statue  in  its  niche,  and  one  of  the  earliest  and 
strictest  lessons  to  the  children  of  the  house  being  how  to 
turn  the  pages  of  their  own  literary  possessions  lightly  and 
deliberately,  with  no  chance  of  tearing  or  dogs'  ears. 

That  is  my  notion  of  the  founding  of  Kings'  Treasuries ; 
and  the  first  Lecture  is  intended  to  show  somewhat  the  use 
and  preciousness  of  their  treasures  :  but  the  two  following 
ones  have  wider  scope,  being  written  in  the  hope  of  awaken- 
ing the  youth  oi  England,  so  far  as  my  poor  words  might 
have  any  power  with  them,  to  take  some  thought  of  the 
purposes  of  the  life  into  which  they  are  entering,  and  the 
natui-e  of  the  world  they  have  to  conquer. 

These  two  lectures  are  fragmentary  and  ill-arranged; 
but  not,  I  think,  diffuse  or    much  compressible.     The 


vm  PREFACE. 

entire  gist  and  conclusion  of  them,  however,  Is  in  the  last 
Bix  paragraphs,  135  to  the  end,  of  the  third  lecture,  which  1 
would  beg  the  reader  to  look  over  not  once  nor  twice, 
(rather  than  any  other  part  of  the  book),  for  they  contain 
the  best  expression  I  have  yet  been  able  to  put  in  words  of 
what,  so  far  as  is  within  my  power,  I  mean  henceforward 
both  to  do  myself,  and  to  plead  with  all  over  whom  I  have 
any  influence,  to  do  also  according  to  their  means:  the 
letters  begun  on  the  first  day  of  this  year,  to  the  workmen 
of  England,  having  the  object  of  originating,  if  possible, 
this  movement  among  them,  in  ti*ue  alliance  with  whatever 
trustworthy  element  of  help  they  can  find  in  the  higher 
classes.  After  these  paragraphs,  let  me  ask  you  to  read, 
by  the  fiery  light  of  recent  events,  the  fable  at  p.  142  (§ 
117),  and  then  §§  129 — 131 ;  and  observe,  my  statement 
respecting  the  famine  at  Orissa  is  not  rhetorical,  but  certi- 
fied by  ofiicial  documents  as  within  the  truth.  Five  hun- 
dred thousand  persons,  at  least,  died  by  starvation  in  our 
British  dominions,  wholly  in  consequence  of  carelessness 
and  want  of  forethought.  Keep  that  well  in  your  memory ; 
and  note  it  as  the  best  possible  illustration  of  modern  poli- 
tical economy  in  true  practice,  and  of  the  relations  it  has 
accomplished  between  Supply  and  Demand.  Then  begin 
the  8e(jond  lecture,  and  all  will  read  clear  enough,  I  think, 


PREFACE.  U 

to  tlie  end;  only,  since  that  second  lecture  was  wi-itten. 
questions  have  arisen  respecting  the  education  and  claims 
of  women  which  have  greatly  troubled  simple  minds  and 
excited  restless  ones.  I  am  sometimes  asked  my  thoughts 
on  this  matter,  and  I  suppose  that  some  girl  readers  of  tho 
second  lecture  may  at  the  end  of  it  desire  to  be  told  sum- 
marily what  I  would  have  them  do  and  desire  in  the  pre- 
sent state  of  things.  This,  then,  is  what  I  would  say  to 
any  girl  who  had  confidence  enough  in  me  to  believe  what 
I  told  her,  or  do  what  I  ask  her.  • 

First,  be  quite  sure  of  one  thing,  that,  however  much 
you  may  know,  and  whatever  advantages  you  may  possess, 
and  however  good  you  may  be,  you  have  not  been  singled 
out,  by  the  God  who  made  you,  from  all  the  other  girls  in 
the  world,  to  be  especially  informed  respecting  His  own 
nature  and  character.  You  have  not  been  born  in  a  lumi- 
nous point  upon  the  surface  of  tlie  globe,  where  a  perfect 
theology  might  be  expounded  to  you  from  your  youth  up, 
and  where  everything  you  were  taught  would  be  true,  and 
everything  that  was  enforced  upon  you,  right.  Of  all  the 
insolent,  all  the  foolish  persuasions  that  by  any  chanct? 
could  enter  and  hold  your  empty  little  heart,  this  is  the 
proudest  and  foolishest, — that  you  have  been  so  much  the 
darling  of  the  Heavens,  and  favourite  of  the  Fates,  as  to  be 


X  PREFACE. 

bom  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  aid  in  the  punctual  place, 
when  and  where  pure  Divine  truth  had  been  sifted  from 
the  erroi-s  of  the  E^ations ;  and  that  your  papa  had  been 
providentially  disposed  to  buy  a  house  in  the  convenient 
neighbom'hood  of  the  steeple  under  which  that  Immaculate 
and  final  verity  would  be  beautifully  proclaimed.  Do  not 
think  it,  child ;  it  is  not  so.  This,  on  the  contrary,  is  the 
fact, — unpleasant  you  may  think  it ;  pleasant,  it  seems  to 
me^ — ^that  you,  with  all  your  pretty  dresses,  and  dainty 
looks,  and  kindly  thoughts,  and  saintly  aspirations,  are  not 
one  whit  more  thought  of  or  loved  by  the  great  Maker 
and  Master  than  any  poor  little  red,  black,  or  blue  savage, 
running  wild  in  the  pestilent  woods,  or  naked  on  the  hot 
Bands  of  the  earth:  and  that,  of  the  two,  you  probably 
know  less  about  God  than  she  does ;  the  only  difference 
being  that  she  thinks  little  of  Him  that  is  right,  and  you, 
much  that  is  wrong. 

That,  then,  is  the  first  thing  to  make  sure  of ; — that  you 
are  not  yet  perfectly  well  informed  on  the  most  abstruse 
of  all  possible  subjects,  and  that,  if  you  care  to  behave 
with  modesty  or  propriety,  you  had  better  be  silent 
about  it. 

The  second  thing  which  you  may  make  sure  of  is,  that 
however  good  you  may  be,  you  have  faults ;  that  howevei 


PREFACE  XI 

dull  you  may  be,  you  can  find  out  what  some  of  them  aie ; 
i»,nd  that  however  slight  they  may  be,  you  had  better  make 
some — ^not  too  painful,  but  patient — effort  to  get  quit  of 
them.  And  so  far  as  you  have  confidence  in  me  at  all, 
trust  me  for  this,  that  how  many  soever  you  may  find  or 
fancy  your  faults  to  be,  there  are  only  two  that  are  of  real 
consequence, — Idleness  and  Cruelty.  Perhaps  you  may  be 
proud.  Well,  we  can  get  much  good  out  of  pride,  if  only 
it  be  not  religious.  Perhaps  you  may  be  vain :  it  is  highly 
probable;  and  very  pleasant  for  the  people  who  like  to 
praise  you.  Perhaps  you  are  a  little  envious :  that  is  really 
very  shocking ;  but  then — so  is  everybody  else.  Perhaps, 
also,  you  are  a  little  malicious,  which  I  am  truly  concerned 
to  hear,  but  should  probably  only  the  more,  if  I  knew  you, 
enjoy  your  conversation.  But  whatever  else  you  may  be, 
you  must  not  be  useless,  and  you  must  not  be  cruel.  If 
there  is  any  one  point  which,  in  six  thousand  years  of 
thinking  about  right  and  wrong,  wise  and  good  men  have 
agreed  upon,  or  successively  by  experience  discovered,  it 
is  that  God  dislikes  idle  and  cruel  people  more  than  any 
others ; — that  His  first  order  is,  "  Work  while  you  have 
light;"  and  His  second,  "Be  merciful  while  you  have 
mercy." 
"  Work  while  you  have  light,"  especially  while  you  have 


Xll  PREFACE 

tlie  light  of  momiag.  There  are  fevr  things  more  won 
derful  to  me  than  that  old  people  never  tell  ycnng  ones 
how  precious  their  youth  is.  They  sometimes  sentimental- 
ly regret  their  own  earlier  days ;  sometimes  prudently  for- 
get them ;  often  foolishly  rebuke  the  young,  often  more 
foolishly  indulge,  often  most  foolishly  thwart  and  restrain ; 
but  scarcely  ever  warn  or  watch  them.  Remember,  then, 
tliat  I,  at  least,  have  warned  you^  that  the  happiness  of 
your  life,  and  its  power,  and  its  part  and  rank  in  earth  or 
in  heaven,  depend  on  the  way  you  pass  your  days  now. 
They  are  not  to  be  sad  days ;  far  from  that,  the  first  duty 
of  young  people  is  to  be  delighted  and  delightful;  but 
they  are  to  be  in  the  deepest  sense  solemn  days.  There  ia 
no  solemnity  so  deep,  to  a  rightly-thinking  creature,  as  that 
of  dawn.  But  not  only  in  that  beautiful  sense,  but  in  all 
their  character  and  method,  they  are  to  be  solemn  days. 
Take  your  Latin  dictionary,  and  look  out  "  sollennis,"  and 
fix  the  sense  of  the  word  well  in  your  mind,  and  remem- 
ber that  every  day  of  }'our  early  life  is  oraaining  irrevo- 
cably, for  good  or  evil,  the  custom  and  practice  of  your 
soul ;  ordaining  either  sacred  customs  of  dear  and  lovely 
recurrence,  or  trenching  deeper  and  deeper  the  furrows 
for  seed  of  sorrow.  Now,  therefore,  see  that  no  day  passes 
Id   which  you  do  not  make  yourself  a  somewhat  bettei 


PREFACE.  jaMt 

creature :  aud  in  order  to  do  that,  find  out,  first,  what  yon 
are  now.  Do  not  think  vaguely  about  it ;  take  pen  and 
paper,  and  write  down  as  accurate  a  description  of  your 
self  as  you  can,  with  the  date  to  it.  If  you  dare  not  do 
BO,  find  out  why  you  dare  not,  and  try  to  get  strength  of 
heart  enough  to  look  youi-self  fairly  in  the  face,  in  mind 
as  well  as  body.  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  the  mind  i&  a 
less  pleasant  thing  to  look  at  than  the  face,  and  for  that 
very  reason  it  needs  more  looking  at ;  so  always  have  two 
mirrors  on  your  toilet  table,  and  see  that  with  proper  care 
you  dress  body  and  mind  before  them  daily.  After  the 
dressing  is  once  over  for  the  day,  think  no  more  about  it : 
as  your  hair  will  blow  about  your  ears,  so  your  temper  and 
thoughts  will  get  rufiied  with  the  day's  work,  and  may 
need,  sometimes,  twice  dressing ;  but  I  don't  want  you  to 
carry  about  a  mental  pocket-comb;  only  to  be  smooth 
braided  always  in  the  morning. 

Write  down  then,  frankly,  what  you  are,  or,  at  least, 
what  you  think  yourself,  not  dwelling  upon  those  inevitable 
faults  which  I  have  just  told  you  are  of  little  consequence, 
ar.i  which  the  action  of  a  right  life  will  shake  or  smooth 
away;  but  that  you  may  detennine  to  the  best  of  your 
intelligence  what  you  are  good  for,  and  can  be  made  into. 
Yon  will  find  that  the  mere  resolve  not  to  bo  useless,  and 


XIV  PEEFACE. 

the  houest  desire  to  help  other  people,  will,  in  the  qiickesl 
and  delicatest  ways,  improve  yourself.  Thus,  from  the 
beginning,  consider  all  your  accomplishments  as  means  of 
assistance  to  others;  read  attentively,  in  this  volumej 
paragraphs  74,  75,  19,  and  79,  and  you  will  understand 
what  I  mean,  with  respect  to  languages  and  music.  lu 
music  especially  }'0u  will  soon  find  what  personal  benefit 
there  is  in  being  serviceable :  it  is  probable  that,  however 
limited  your  powers,  you  have  voice  and  ear  enough  to 
sustain  a  note  of  moderate  compass  in  a  concerted  piece ; — 
that,  then,  is  the  first  thing  to  make  sure  you  can  do.  Get 
your  voice  disciplined  and  clear,  and  think  only  of  accu- 
racy ;  never  of  effect  or  expression :  if  you  have  any  soul 
worth  expressing  it  will  show  itself  in  your  singing ;  but 
most  likely  there  are  very  few  feelings  in  you,  at  present, 
needing  any  particular  expression ;  and  the  one  thing  you 
have  to  do  is  to  make  a  clear-voiced  little  instrument  oi 
yourself,  which  other  people  can  entirely  depend  upon  for 
the  note  wanted.  So,  in  drawing,  as  soon  as  you  can  set 
down  the  right  shape  of  anything,  and  thereby  explain  its 
character  to  another  person,  or  make  the  look  of  it  clear 
and  interesting  to  a  child,  you  will  begin  to  enjoy  the  art 
vividly  for  its  own  sake,  and  all  your  habits  of  mind  and 
powers  of  memory  will  gain  precision:  but  if  yon  only 


PREFACE.  XT 

try  to  make  showy  drawings  for  praise,  cr  pretty  ones  for 
amusement,  your  drawing  will  have  little  or  no  real  inter- 
est for  you,  and  no  educational  power  whatever. 

Then,  besides  this  more  delicate  work,  resolve  to  do 
every  day  some  that  is  useful  in  the  vulgar  sense.  Learn 
first  thoroughly  the  economy  of  the  kitchen ;  the  good  and 
bad  qualities  of  every  common  article  of  food,  and  the 
simplest  and  best  modes  of  their  preparation :  when  you 
have  time,  go  and  help  in  the  cooking  of  poorer  families, 
and  show  them  how  to  make  as  much  of  everything  as  pos- 
sible, and  how  to  make  little,  nice :  coaxing  and  tempting 
them  into  tidy  and  pretty  ways,  and  pleading  for  well- 
folded  table-cloths,  however  coarse,  and  for  a  flower  or  two 
out  of  the  garden  to  strew  on  them.  If  you  manage  to 
get  a  clean  table-cloth,  bright  plates  on  it,  and  a  good  dish 
in  the  middle,  of  your  own  cooking,  you  may  ask  leave  to 
say  a  short  grace ;  and  let  your  religious  ministries  be  con- 
fined to  that  much  for  the  present. 

Again,  let  a  certain  part  of  your  day  (as  little  as  you 
choose,  but  not  to  be  broken  in  upon)  be  set  apart  for 
making  strong  and  pretty  dresses  for  the  poor.  Learn  the 
sound  qualities  of  all  useful  stuffs,  and  make  everything  of 
the  best  you  can  get,  whatever  its  price.  I  have  many 
reasons  for  desiring  you  to  do  tliis, — too  many  to  be  told 


XVI  PREFACE. 

just  DOW, — ^trust  me,  and  be  sure  you  get  eyeiytlimg  as  good 
as  can  be :  and  if,  in  the  villanous  state  of  modern  trade,  you 
cannot  get  it  good  at  any  price,  buy  its  raw  material,  and 
set  some  of  the  poor  women  about  you  to  spin  and  weave, 
till  you.  have  got  stuff  that  can  be  trusted :  and  then,  every 
day,  make  some  little  piece  of  useful  clothing,  sewn  with 
your  own  fingers  as  strongly  as  it  can  be  stitched ;  and 
embroider  it  or  otherwise  beautify  it  moderately  with  fine 
needlework,  such  as  a  girl  may  be  proud  of  having  done. 
And  accumulate  these  things  by  you  until  you  hear  of 
some  honest  persons  in  need  of  clothing,  which  may  often 
too  sorrowfully  be ;  and,  even  though  you  should  be  de- 
ceived, and  give  them  to  the  dishonest,  and  hear  of  their 
being  at  once  taken  to  the  pawnbroker's,  never  mind  that, 
for  the  pawnbroker  must  sell  them  to  some  one  who  has 
need  of  them.  That  is  no  business  of  yours ;  what  con- 
cerns you  is  only  that  when  you  see  a  half -naked  child, 
you  should  have  good  and  fresh  clothes  to  give  it,  if  ita 
parents  will  let  it  be  taught  to  wear  them.  If  they  will 
not,  consider  how  tliey  came  to  be  of  such  a  mind,  which 
it  will  be  wholesome  for  you  beyond  most  subjects  of  in- 
quiry to  asceitain.  And  after  you  have  gone  on  doing 
tliis  a  little  while,  you  will  begin  to  understand  the  mean- 
ing of  at  least  one  chapter  of  your  Bible,  Proverbs  xxxi., 


PREFACE.  XVll 

without  need  of    any    laboured    comment,    sermon,    or 
meditation. 

In  these,  then  (and  of  course  in  all  minor  ways  besides, 
that  you  can  discover  in  your  own  household),  you  must 
be  to  the  best  of  yom*  strength  usefully  employed  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  day,  so  that  you  may  be  able  at  the 
end  of  it  to  say,  as  proudly  as  any  peasant,  that  you  have 
not  eaten  the  bread  of  idleness.     Then,  secondly,  I  said, 
you  are  not  to  be  cruel.    Perhaps  you  think  there  is  no 
chance  of  your  being  so ;  and  indeed  I  hope  it  is  not 
likely  that  you  should  be  deliberately  unkind  to  any  crea- 
ture ;  but  unless  you  are  deliberately  kind  to  every  creature, 
you  will  often  be  cruel  to  many.     Cruel,  partly  through 
want  of  imagination  (a  far  rarer  and  weaker  faculty  in 
women  than  men),  and  yet  more,   at   the  present   day, 
through  the  subtle  encouragement  of  your  selfishness  by 
the  religious  doctrine  that  all  which  we  now  suppose  to  be 
evil  will  be  brought  to  a  good  end ;  doctrine  practically 
issuing,  not  in  less  earnest  efforts  that  the  immediate  un- 
pleasantness may  be  averted  from  ourselves,  but  in  our 
remaining  satisfied  in  the  contemplation  of  its  ultimate 
objects,  when  it  is  inflicted  on  others. 

It  is  not  likely  that  the  more  accurate  methods  of  lecent 
mental  education  will  now  long  permit  young  people  to 


XVIU  PREFACE. 

grow  up  ill  the  pei*siiasioii  that,  in  any  danger  or  distress^ 
tliej  may  expect  to  be  themselves  saved  by  the  providence 
of  God,  while  those  around  them  are  lost  by  His  Im- 
providence: but  they  may  be  yet  long  restrained  fi*om 
rightly  kind  action,  and  long  accustomed  to  endure  both 
their  own  pain  occasionally,  and  the  pain  of  others  always, 
with  an  miwise  patience,  by  misconception  of  the  eternal 
and  incurable  nature  of  real  evil.  Observe,  therefore, 
carefully  in  this  matter :  there  are  degrees  of  pain,  as  de- 
grees of  faultfulness,  which  are  altogether  conquerable, 
and  which  seem  to  be  merely  forms  of  wholesome  trial  or 
discipline.  Yom-  fingei-s  tingle  when  you  go  out  on  a 
frosty  morning,  and  are  all  the  warmer  afterwards ;  your 
limbs  are  weary  with  wholesome  work,  and  lie  down  in  the 
pleasanter  rest ;  you  are  tried  for  a  little  while  by  having  to 
wait  for  some  promised  good,  and  it  is  all  the  sweeter 
when  it  comes.  But  you  camiot  carry  the  trial  past  a  cer- 
tain point.  Let  the  cold  fasten  on  your  hand  in  an  extreme 
degree,  and  your  fingers  will  moulder  from  their  sockets. 
Fatigue  yourself,  but  once,  to  utter  exhaustion,  and  to  the 
end  of  life  you  shall  not  recover  the  former  vigour  of  your 
frame.  Let  heart-sickness  pass  beyond  a  certain  bitter 
point,  and  the  heart  loses  its  life  for  ever. 
Now,  the  very  definition  of  evil  is  in  this  irremediable- 


PEEFACE.  XIX 

ness.  It  means  sorrow,  or  sin,  which  end  in  death ;  and 
assuredly,  as  far  as  we  know,  or  can  conceive,  there  ard 
many  conditions  both  of  pain  and  sin  which  cannot  but  so 
end.  Of  course  we  are  ignorant  and  blinld  creatui-es,  and 
we  cannot  know  what  seeds  of  good  may  be  in  present  suf- 
fering, or  present  crime ;  but  with  what  we  cannot  know, 
we  are  not  concerned.  It  is  conceivable  that  murderers 
and  liars  may  in  some  distant  world  be  exalted  into  a 
higher  humanity  than  they  could  have  reached  without 
homicide  or  falsehood  ;  but  the  contingency  is  not  one  by 
which  our  actions-  should  be  guided.  There  is,  indeed,  a 
better  hope  that  the  beggar,  who  lies  at  our  gates  in  misery, 
may,  within  gates  of  pearl,  be  comforted ,  but  the  Master, 
whose  words  are  our  only  authority  for  thinking  so,  never 
Himself  inflicted  disease  as  a  blessing,  nor  sent  away  the 
hungry  unfed,  or  the  wounded  unhealed. 

Believe  me,  then,  the  only  right  principle  of  action  here, 
is  to  consider  good  and  evil  as  defined  by  our  natural 
sense  of  both ;  and  to  strive  to  promote  the  one,  and  to 
conquer  the  other,  with  as  hearty  endeavour  as  if  there 
were,  indeed,  no  other  world  than  this.  Above  all,  get 
quit  of  the  absurd  idea  that  Heaven  will  interfere  to  cor- 
rect great  errors,  while  allowing  its  laws  to  take  their 
coui'se  in  punishing  small  ones.     If  you  prepare  a  dish  oi 


XX  PREFACE. 

food  carelessly,  you  do  not  expect  Providence  to  make 
it  palatable;  neither  if,  through  yeai-s  of  folly,  you  mis- 
guide your  own  life,  need  you  expect  Divine  interfe* 
rence  to  bring  round  everything  at  last  for  the  best.  1 
tell  you,  positively,  the  world  is  not  so  constituted:  the 
oonsequences  of  great  mistakes  are  just  as  sure  as  those 
of  small  ones,  and  the  happiness  of  your  whole  life, 
and  of  all  the  lives  over  which  you  have  power,  de- 
pends as  literally  on  your  own  common  sense  and  discre- 
tion as  the  excellence  and  order  of  the  feast  of  a  day. 

Think  carefully  and  bravely  over  these  things,  and 
you  will  find  them  true:  having  found  them  so,  think 
also  carefully  over  your  own  position  in  life.  I  assume 
that  you  belong  to'  the  middle  or  upper  classes,  and 
that  you  would  shrink  from  descending  into  a  lower 
sphere.  You  may  fancy  you  would  not:  nay,  if  you 
are  very  good,  strong-hearted,  and  romantic,  perhaps 
you  really  would  not;  but  it  is  not  wrong  tliat  you 
should.  You  have  then,  I  suppose,  good  food,  pretty 
rooms  to  live  in,  pretty  dresses  to  wear,  power  of  ob- 
taining every  rational  and  wholesome  pleasure ;  you  are, 
moreover,  probably  gentle  and  grateful,  and  in  the  habit 
of  every  day  thanking  God  for  these  things.  But  why 
do  you  thank  Him?      Ib  it  because,  in  these  mattei-s, 


1»REFACE.  XXI 

as  well  as  in  your  religious  knowledge,  you  think  He 
has  made  a  favourite  of  you.  Is  the  essential  meaning 
of  your  thanksgiving,  ''Lord,  I  thank  thee  that  I  am 
not  as  other  girls  are,  not  in  that  I  fast  twice  in  the 
week  while  they  feast,  but  in  that  I  feast  seven  times 
a  week,  while  they  fast,"  and  are  you  quite  sure  this 
is  a  pleasing  form  of  thanksgiving  to  your  Heavenly 
Father  ?  Suppose  you  saw  one  of  your  own  true  earthly 
sisters,  Lucy  or  Emily,  cast  out  of  your  mortal  father's 
house,  starving,  helpless,  heartbroken ;  and  that  every 
morning  when  you  went  into  your  father's  room,  you 
said  to  him,  "How  good  you  are,  father,  to  give  me 
what  you  don't  give  Lucy,"  are  you  sure  that,  whatever 
anger  your  parent  might  have  just  cause  for,  against 
your  sister,  he  would  be  pleased  by  that  thanksgiving, 
or  flattered  by  that  praise?  Nay,  are  you  even  sure 
that  you  are  so  much  the  favourite:  suppose  that,  all 
this  while,  he  loves  poor  Lucy  just  as  well  as  3^ou,  and 
is  only  tr^dng  you  through  her  pain,  and  perhaps  not 
angry  with  her  in  anywise,  but  deeply  angry  with  you, 
and  all  the  more  for  your  thanksgivings?  Would  it 
not  be  well  that  you  should  think,  and  earnestly  too, 
over  this  standing  of  yours;  and  all  the  more  if  you 
wish  to  believe  that  text,  which  clergymen  so  mur,h  di^f 


XXU  PEEFACE. 

like  preacjhing  on,  "How  hardly  shall  they  that  have 
riches  enter  into  the  Kingdom  of  God?"  You  do  not 
believe  it  now,  or  you  would  be  less  complacent  in 
your  state;  and  you  cannot  believe  it  at  all,  until  you 
know  that  the  I^ngdom  of  God  means; — "not  meat 
and  drink,  but  justice,  peace,  and  joy  in  the  Holy 
Ghost,"  nor  until  you  know  also  that  such  joy  is  not 
by  any  means,  necessarily,  in  going  to  church,  or  in 
singing  hynms;  but  may  be  joy  in  a  dance,  or  joy  in 
a  jest,  or  joy  in  anything  you  have  deserved  to  possess, 
or  that  you  are  willing  to  give ;  but  joy  in  nothing  that 
separates  you,  as  by  any  strange  favour,  from  your  fel- 
low-creatures, that  exalts  you  through  their  degradation 
— exempts  you  from  their  toil — or  indulges  you  in  time 
of  their  distress. 

Think,  then,  and  some  day,  I  believe,  you  will  feel 
also, — ^no  morbid  passion  of  pity  such  as  would  turn  you 
into  a  black  Sister  of  Charity,  but  the  steady  fire  of 
perpetual  kindness  which  will  make  you  a  bright  one, 
I  speak  in  no  disparagement  of  them ;  I  know  well  how 
good  the  Sisters  of  Charity  are,  and  how  much  wo  owe 
to  them ;  but  all  these  professional  pieties  (except  so  far 
as  distinction  or  association  may  be  necessary  for  effec- 
tiveness of  work),  are  in  their  spirit  wrong,  and  in  prao 


PREFACE.  XXUl 

tice  merely  plaster  the  sores  of  disease  that  ought  never 
have  been  permitted  to  exist;  encouraging  at  the  same 
time  the  herd  of  less  excellent  women  in  frivolity,  by 
leading  them  to  think  that  they  must  either  be  good  up 
to  the  black  standard,  or  cannot  be  good  for  anything. 
Wear  a  costume,  by  all  means,  if  you  like;  but  let  it 
be  a  cheerful  and  becoming  one ;  and  be  in  your  heart 
a  Sister  of  Charity  always,  without  either  veiled  or 
voluble  declaration  of  it. 

As  I  pause,  before  ending  my  preface — thinking  of 
one  or  two  more  points  that  are  difficult  to  write  of — 
I  find  a  letter  in  TTie  Times,  from  a  French  lady, 
which  says  all  I  want  so  beautifully,  that  I  will  print 
it  just  as  it  stands: 

Sm, — It  is  often  said  that  one  example  is  worth  many  sermons. 
Shall  I  be  judged  presumptuous  if  I  point  out  one,  which  seems 
to  me  so  striking  just  now,  that,  however  painful,  I  cannot  help 
dwelling  upon  it  ? 

It  is  the  share,  the  sad  and  large  share,  that  French  society 
and  its  recent  habits  of  luxury,  of  expenses,  of  dress,  of  indul- 
gence in  every  kind  of  extravagant  dissipation,  has  to  lay  to  its 
own  door  in  its  actual  crisis  of  ruin,  misery,  and  humiliation.  If 
our  menageres  can  be  cited  as  an  example  to  English  housewives, 
so,  alas!  can  other  classes  of  our  society  be  set  up  as  an  example 
-•not  to  be  followed. 

Bitter  must  be  the  feelings  of  many  a  French  woman  whose 


XXIV  PREFACE. 

days  of  luxury  and  expensive  habits  are  at  an  end,  and  whose 
bills  of  bygone  splendour  lie  with  a  heavy  weight  on  her  con- 
science, if  not  on  her  purse! 

With  us  the  evil  has  spread  high  and  low.  Everywhere  have 
the  examples  given  by  the  highest  ladies  in  the  land  been  fol' 
lowed  but  too  successfully. 

Every  year  did  dress  become  more  extravagant,  entertainments 
more  costly,  expenses  of  every  kind  more  considerable.  Lower 
and  lower  became  the  tone  of  society,  its  good  breeding,  its  deli- 
cacy. More  and  more  were  monde  and  demi-monde  associated  in 
newspaper  accounts  of  fashionable  doings,  in  scandalous  gossip, 
on  racecourses,  in  'premieres  representations^  in  imitation  of  each 
other's  costumes,  mohiliers  and  slang. 

Living  beyond  one's  means  became  habitual — almost  necessary— 
for  every  one  to  keep  up  with,  if  not  to  go  beyond,  every  one  else. 

What  the  result  of  all  this  has  been  we  now  see  in  the  wreck 
of  our  prosperity,  in  the  downfall  of  all  that  seemed  brightest 
and  highest. 

Deeply  and  fearfully  impressed  by  what  my  own  country  has 
incurred  and  is  suffering,  I  cannot  help  feeling  sorrowful  when  I 
see  in  England  signs  of  our  besetting  sins  appearing  also.  Paint 
and  chignons,  slang  and  vaudevilles,  knowing  "Anonymas"  by 
name,  and  reading  doubtfully  moral  novels,  are  in  themselves 
small  offences,  although  not  many  years  ago  they  would  have  ap- 
peared very  heinous  ones,  yet  they  are  quick  and  tempting  con- 
veyances on  a  very  dangerous  high-road. 

I  would  that  all  Englishwomen  knew  how  they  are  looked  up 
to  from  abroad — what  a  high  opinion,  what  honour  and  reverence 
we  foreigners  have  for  their  principles,  their  truthfulness,  the  fresh 
and  pure  innocence  of  their  daughters,  the  healthy  youthfulneai 
of  their  lovely  children. 


PREFACE.  XX^ 

May  I  illustrate  this  by  a  short  example  which  happened  very 
Dear  me?  Dui'ing  the  days  of  the  emeutes  of  1848,  all  the  houses 
in  Paris  were  being  searched  for  fire-arms  by  the  mob.  The  one 
I  was  living  in  contained  none,  as  the  master  of  the  house  repeat- 
edly assured  the  furious  and  incredulous  Republicans.  They  were 
going  to  lay  violent  hands  on  him,  when  his  wife,  an  English 
lady,  hearing  the  loud  discussion,  came  bravely  forward  and  assured 
them  that  no  arms  were  concealed.  "Vous  etes  anglaise,  noua 
vous  croyons;  les  anglaises  disent  toujoui-s  la  v€rit€,"  was  the 
immediate  answer,  and  the  rioters  quietly  left. 

Now,  Sir,  shall  I  be  accused  of  unjust' criticism  if,  loving  and 
admiiing  your  country,  as  these  lines  will  prove,  certain  new  fea- 
tures strike  me  as  painful  discrepancies  in  English  life  ? 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  preach  the  contempt  of  all  that  can  make 
life  lovable  and  wholesomely  pleasant.  I  love  nothing  better  than 
to  see  a  woman  nice,  neat,  elegant,  looking  her  best  in  the  prettiest 
dress  that  her  taste  and  purse  can  afford,  or  your  bright,  fresh  young 
girls  fearlessly  and  perfectly  sitting  their  hoi-ses,  or  adorning  their 
houses  as  pretty  [sic;  it  is  not  quite  grammar,  but  it  is  better  tlian  if 
it  were  ;]  as  care,  trouble,  and  refinement  can  make  them. 

It  is  the  degree  leyond  that  which  to  us  has  proved  so  fatal, 
and  that  I  would  our  example  could  warn  you  from,  as  a  small 
repayment  for  your  hospitality  and  friendliness  to  us  in  our  days 
of  trouble. 

May  Englishwomen  accept  this  in  a  kindly  spirit  as  a  new-year's 
wish  fi'om 

A  Fkench  Ladt, 

Dec.  29. 

That,  then,  is  the  substance  of  what  I  would  fain  say 
convincingly,  if  it  might  be,  to  my  girl  friends;  at  all 


XXYl  PREFACE. 

events  with  cei-tainty  in  my  own  mind  that  I  was  thui 
far  a  safe  guide  to  them. 

For  other  and  older  readers  it  is  needful  I  should 
wi'ite  a  few  words  more,  respecting  what  opportunity  I 
liave  had  to  judge,  or  right  I  have  to  speak,  of  such 
things;  for,  indeed,  too  much  of  what  I  have  said  about 
women  has  been  said  in  faith  only.  A  wise  and  lovely 
English  lady  told  me,  when  Sescmie  and  Lilies  first 
appeared,  that  she  was  sure  the  Sesame  would  be  use- 
ful, but  that  in  the  Lilies  I  had  been  writing  of  what 
I  knew  nothing  about.  Which  was  in  a  measure  too 
true,  and  also  that  it  is  more  partial  than  my  writings 
are  usually:  for  as  Ellesmere  spoke  his  speech  on  the 

intervention,  not   indeed    otherwise  than  he  felt, 

but  yet  altogether  for  the  sake  of  Gretchen,  so  I  wrote 
the  Lilies  to  please  one  girl;  and  were  it  not  for  w^hat 
I  remember  of  her,  and  of  few  besides,  should  now 
perhaps  recast  some  of  the  sentences  in  the  Lilies  in 
a  very  different  tone:  for  as  years  have  gone  by,  it 
has  chanced  to  me,  untowardly  in  some  respects,  for- 
tunately in  others  (because  it  enables  me  to  read  his- 
tory more  clearly),  to  see  the  utmost  evil  that  is  in 
women,  while  I  have  had  but  to  believe  the  utmost 
good.     The  best  women  are  indeed  necessarily  the  mos< 


PREFACE.  XXVll 

diflicult  to  know;  they  are  recognized  chiefly  in  the 
happiness  of  their  husbands  and  the  nobleness  of  their 
children;  they  are  only  to  be  divined,  not  discerned, 
by  the  stranger;  and,  sometimes,  seem  almost  helpless 
except  in  their  homes;  yet  without  the  help  of  one  of 
them,*  to  whom  this  book  is  dedicated,  the  day  would 
probably  have  come  before  now,  when  I  should  have 
written  and  thought  no  more. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  fashion  of  the  time  renders 
whatever  is  forward,  coarse,  or  senseless,  in  feminine 
nature,  too  palpable  to  all  men: — the  w^ak  picturesque- 
ness  of  my  earlier  writings  brought  me  acquainted  with 
much  of  their  emptiest  enthusiasm;  and  the  chances  of 
later  life  gave  me  opportunities  of  watching  women  in 
states  of  degradation  and  vindictiveness  which  opened  to 
me  the  gloomiest  secrets  of  Greek  and  Syrian  tragedy. 
I  have  seen  them  betray  their  household  charities  to 
lUst,  their  pledged  love  to  devotion ;  I  have  seen  mothei*s 
dutiful  to  their  children,  as  Medea ;  and  children  dutiful 
to  their  parents,  as  the  daughter  of  Herodias :  but  my 
trust  is  still  unmoved  in  the  preciousness  of  the  natures 
that  are  so  fatal  in  their  error,  and  I  leave  the  words 
of  the  Lilies  unchanged;   believing,  yet,  that  no  man 


XXVDl  PREFACE. 

ever  lived  a  right  life  who  had  not  been  chastened  bj 
a  woman's  love,  strengthened  by  her  com-age,  and 
guided  by  her  discretion. 

What  I  might  myself  have  been,  so  helped,  I  rarely 
indulge  in  the  idleness  of  thinking;  but  what  I  am, 
since  I  take  on  me  the  function  of  a  teacher,  it  is  well 
that  the  reader  should  know,  as  far  as  I  can  tell  him. 

Not  an  unjust  person ;  not  an  unkind  one ;  not  a 
false  one ;  a  lover  of  order,  labour,  and  peace.  That, 
it  seems  to  me,  is  enough  to  give  me  right  to  say  all  1 
care  to  say  on  ethical  subjects:  more,  I  could  only  tell 
definitely  through  details  of  autobiography  such  as  none 
but  prosperous  and  (in  the  simple  sense  of  the  word) 
faultless,  lives  could  justify ; — and  mine  has  been  neither. 
Yet,  if  any  one,  skilled  in  reading  the  torn  manuscripts 
of  the  human  soul,  cares  for  more  intimate  knowledge 
of  me,  he  may  have  it  by  knowing  with  what  persona 
in  past  history  I  have  most  sympathy. 

I  will  name  three. 

In  all  that  is  strongest  and  deepest  in  me, — that  fits 
me  for  my  work,  and  gives  light  or  shadow  to  my  being, 
I  liave  sympathy  with  Guido  Guinicelli. 

In  my  constant  natural  temper,  and  thoughts  of  thinga 
and  of  people,  with  MarmonteL 


PREFACE.  XXIX 

In  my  enforced  and  accidental  temper,  and  thoughts 
of  things  and  of  people,  with  Dean  Swift. 

Any  one  who  can  miderstand  the  natures  of  those 
tliree  men,  can  understand  mine;  and  having  said  sc 
nnich,  I  am  content  to  leave  both  life  and  work  to  be 
remembered  or  forgotten,  as  their  uses  may  deserve. 

Denmarh  Hilly 

Ut  January y  1871. 


PREFACE-LAST  EDITION. 


A  PASSAGE  in  the  fifty-third  page  of  this  book, 
referring  to  Alpine  travellers,  will  fall  harshly  on  the 
reader's  ear  since  it  has  been  sorrowfully  enforced  by 
the  deaths  on  Mont  Cervin.  I  leave  it,  nevertheless,  as  it 
stood,  for  I  do  not  now  write  unadvisedly,  and  think 
it  wrong  to  cancel  what  has  once  been  thoughtfully  said ; 
but  it  must  not  so  remain  without  a  few  added  words. 

No  blame  ought  to  attach  to  the  Alpine  tourist  for 
incurring  danger..  There  is  usually  sufiicient  cause,  and 
real  reward,  for  all  difficult  work;  and  even  were  it 
otherwise,  some  experience  of  distinct  peril,  and  the 
acquirement  of  habits  of  quick  and  calm  action  in  its 
presence,  are  necessary  elements,  at  some  period  of  life,  w 
the  formation  of  manly  character.  The  blame  of  bribing 
guides  into  danger  is  a  singular  accusation,  in  behalf  of  a 
people  who  have  made  mercenary  soldiers  of  themselves 
for  centuries,  without  any  one's  thinking  of  giving  their 


XXXU  PREFACE. 

fidelity  bettA?.f  employment:  though,  indeed,  the  piece  of 
work  they  did  jti  the  gate  of  the  Tuileries,  however  useless, 
was  no  UDwiso  one;  and  their  lion  of  flawed  molasse 
at  Lucerne,  wortLloss  \u  point  of  art  though  it  be,  is  never- 
theless a  better  re^-ard  than  much  pay ;  and  a  better 
ornament  to  the  old  w)wn  than  the  Schweizer  Hof,  or  flat 
new  quay,  for  the  promenade  of  those  travellers  who  do 
not  take  guides  into  danger.  The  British  public  are  how- 
ever, at  home,  so  innocent  of  ever  buying  their  fellow 
creatures'  lives,  that  we  may  justly  expect  them  to  be 
punctilious  abroad  I  They  do  not,  perhaps,  often  calculate 
how  many  souls  flit  annually,  choked  in  fire-damp  and  sea- 
sand,  from  economically  watched  shafts,  and  economically 
manned  ships;  nor  see  the  fiery  ghosts  writhe  up  out 
of  every  scuttleful  of  cheap  coals :  nor  count  how  many 
threads  of  girlish  life  are  cut  off  and  woven  annually  by 
painted  Fates,  into  breadths  of  ball-dresses;  or  soaked 
away,  like  rotten  hemp-fibre,  in  the  inlet  of  Cocytus  which 
overflows  the  Grassmarket  where  flesh  is  as  grass.  We 
need  not,  it  seems  to  me,  loudly  blame  any  one  for  paying 
a  guide  to  take  a  brave  walk  with  him.  Therefore,  gentle- 
men of  the  Alpine  Club,  as  much  danger  as  you  care 
to  face,  by  all  means ;  but,  if  it  please  you,  not  so  much 
talk  of  it.     The  real  ground  for  reprehension  of  Alpine 


PREFACE.  XXXUl 

climbing  is  that,  with  less  cause,  it  excites  more  vanitj? 
than  any  other  athletic  skill.  A  good  horseman  knows 
what  it  has  cost  to  make  him  one ;  everybody  else  knows  it 
too,  and  knows  that  he  is  one ;  he  need  not  ride  at  a  fence 
merely  to  show  his  seat.  But  credit  for  practice  in  climb- 
ing can  only  be  claimed  after  success,  which,  though 
perhaps  accidental  and  unmerited,  must  yet  be  attained  at 
all  risks,  or  the  shame  of  defeat  borne  with  no  evidence  of 
the  difficulties  encountered.  At  this  particular  period,  also, 
the  distinction  obtainable  by  first  conquest  of  a  peak  is  as 
tempting  to  a  traveller  as  the  discovery  of  a  new  element 
to  a  chemist,  or  of  a  new  species  to  a  naturalist.  Yanity  ia 
never  so  keenly  excited  as  by  competitions  which  involve 
chance ;  the  course  of  science  is  continually  arrested,  and 
its  nomenclature  fatally  confused,  by  the  eagerness  of  even 
wise  and  able  men  to  establish  their  priority  in  an  unim- 
portant discovery,  or  obtain  vested  right  to  a  syllable  in  a 
deformed  word ;  and  many  an  otherwise  sensible  person 
will  risk  his  life  for  the  sake  of  a  line  in  future  guide- 
books, to  the  fact  that  " horn  was  first  ascended  by  Mr. 

X.  in  the  year "; — never  reflecting  that  of  all  the  lines 

in  the  page,  the   one  he   has  thus  wrought  for  will  be 
precisely  the  least  interesting  to  the  reader. 
Tt  is  not  therefore  strange,  however  much  to  be  regrettai, 


XXXIV  PREFACE. 

that  while  no  gentleman  boasts  in  other  cases  of  his  saga- 
city or  his  courage — while  no  good  soldier  talks  of  the 
charge  he  led,  nor  an}'-  good  sailor  of  the  helm  he  held, — 
every  man  among  the  Alps  seems  to  lose  his  senses  and 
modesty  with  the  fall  of  the  barometer,  and  returns  from 
his  Nephelo-coccygia  brandishing  his  ice-axe  in  everybody's 
face.  Whatever  the  Alpine  Club  have  done,  or  may  yet 
accomplish,  in  a  sincere  thirst  for  mountain  knowledge,  and 
in  happy  sense  of  youthful  strength  and  play  of  animal 
spirit,  they  have  done,  and  will  do,  wisely  and  well ;  but 
whatever  they  are  urged  to  by  mere  sting  of  competition 
and  itch  of  praise,  they  will  do,  as  all  vain  things  must  be 
done  for  ever,  foolishly  and  ill.  It  is  a  strange  proof 
of  that  absence  of  any  real  national  love  of  science,  of 
which  I  have  had  occasion  to  speak  in  the  text,  that  no 
entire  survey  of  the  Alps  has  yet  been  made  by  properly 
qualified  men ;  and  that,  except  of  the  chain  of  Chamouni, 
no  accurate  maps  exist,  nor  any  complete  geological  section 
even  of  that.  But  Mr.  Keilly's  survey  of  that  central  group, 
and  the  generally  accurate  information  collected  in  the 
guide-book  published  by  the  Club,  are  honourable  results 
*)f  English  adventure ;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  con- 
tinuance of  such  work  will  gradually  put  an  end  to  the 
vulgar  excitement  which  looked  upon  the  granite  of  the 


PREFACE.  XXXV 

Alps  only  as  an  unoccupied  advertisement  wall  for  chalk 
iug  names  upon. 

..  Kespecting  tlie  means  of  accomplishing  such  work  with 
^east  risk,  there  was  a  sentence  in  the  article  of  our  leading 
public  journal,  which  deserves,  and  requires  expansion. 
"  Their  "  (the  Alpine  club's)  "  ropes  must  not  break." 
Certainly  not!  nor  any  one  else's  ropes,  if  they  may  be 
rendered  unbreakable  by  honesty  of  make;  seeing  that 
more  lives  hang  by  them  on  moving  than  on  motionless 
seas.  The  records  of  the  last  gale  at  the  Cape  may  teach 
us  that  economy  in  the  manufacture  of  cables  is  not  always 
a  matter  for  exultation ;  and,  on  the  whole,  it  might  even 
be  well  in  an  honest  country,  sending  out,  and  up  and 
down,  various  lines  east  and  west,  that  nothing  should 
break ;  banks, — ^words, — nor  dredging  tackle. 

Granting,  however,  such  praise  and  such  sphere  of 
exertion  as  we  thus  justly  may,  to  the  spirit  of  adventure, 
there  is  one  consequence  of  it.  coming  directly  under  my 
own  cognizance,  of  which  I  cannot  but  speak  with  utter 
regret, — the  loss,  namely,  of  all  real  understanding  of  the 
character  and  beauty  of  Switzerland,  by  the  country's  being 
now  regarded  as  half  watering-place,  half  gymnasium.  It 
is  indeed  true  that  under  the  influence  of  the  pride  which 
gives   poignancy  to   the   sensations   which   others   cannot 


XXXVl  PREFACE. 

share  with  us  (and  a  not  unjustifiable  zest  to  the  pleasure 
which  we  have  worked  for),  an  ordinary  traveller  will 
usually  observe  and  enjoy  more  on  a  difficult  excursion 
than  on  an  easy  one ;  and  more  in  objects  to  which  he  is 
unaccustomed  than  in  those  with  which  he  is  familiar.  He 
will  notice  with  extreme  interest  that  snow  is  white  on  the 
top  of  a  hill  in  June,  though  he  would  have  attached  little 
importance  to  the  same  peculiarity  in  a  wreath  at  the 
bottom  of  a  hill  in  January.  He  will  generally  find  more 
to  admire  in  a  cloud  under  his  feet,  than  in  one  over  his 
head ;  and,  oppressed  by  the  monotony  of  a  sky  which  is 
prevalently  blue,  will  derive  extraordinary  satisfaction 
from  its  approximation  to  black.  Add  to  such  grounds  of 
delight  the  aid  given  to  the  effect  of  whatever  is  impressive 
in  the  scenery  of  the  high  Alps,  by  the  absence  of  ludicrous 
or  degrading  concomitants ;  and  it  ceases  to  be  surprising 
that  Alpine  excursionists  should  be  greatly  pleased,  or 
that  they  should  attribute  their  pleasure  to  some  true  and 
increased  apprehension  of  the  nobleness  of  natural  scenery. 
But  no  impression  can  be  more  false.  The  real  beauty  of 
the  Alps  is  to  be  seen,  and  seen  only,  where  all  may  see  it, 
the  child,  the  cripple,  and  the  man  of  grey  hairs.  There  ia 
more  true  loveliness  in  a  single  glade  of  pasture  shadowed 
by  pine,  or  gleam  of  rocky  brook,  or  inlet  of  unsullied  lake 


PREFACE.  XXX  Vll 

among  the  lower  Bernese"  and  Savoyard  hills,  than  in  the 
entire  field  of  jagged  gneiss  which  crests  the  central  ridge 
from  the  Shreckhorn  to  the  Yiso.  The  valley  of  CI  use, 
through  which  unhappy  travellers  consent  now  to  be 
invoiced,  packed  in  baskets  like  fish,  so  only  that  they  may 
cheaply  reach,  in  the  feverous  haste  which  has  become  the 
law  of  their  being,  the  glen  of  Chamouni  whose  every 
lovely  foreground  rock  has  now  been  broken  up  to  build 
hotels  for  them,  contains  more  beauty  in  half  a  league  of  it, 
than  the  entire  valley  they  have  devastated,  and  turned 
into  a  casino,  did  in  its  uninjured  pride ;  and  that  passage 
of  the  Jura  by  Olten  (between  Basle  and  Lucerne),  which  is 
by  the  modern  tourist  triumphantly  effected  through  a 
tunnel  in  ten  minutes,  between  two  piggish  trumpet  grunts 
proclamatory  of  the  ecstatic  transit,  used  to  show  from 
every  turn  and  sweep  of  its  winding  ascent,  up  which  one 
sauntered,  gathering  wild -flowers,  for  half  a  happy  day, 
diviner  aspects  of  the  distant  Alps  than  ever  were  achieved 
by  toil  of  limb,  or  won  by  risk  of  life. 

There  is  indeed  a  healthy  enjoyment  both  in  engineers- 
work,  and  in  schoolboys'  play ;  the  making  and  mending 
of  roads  has  its  true  enthusiasms,  and  I  have  still  pleasure 
euough  in  mere  scrambling  to  wonder  not  a  little  at 
the    supreme     gravity   with   which    apes    exercise    their 


:XXXV111  PREFACE. 

superior  powers  in  that  kind,  as  if  profitless  to  them. 
But  neither  macadamisation,  nor  tunnelling,  nor  rope 
ladders,  will  ever  enable  one  human  creature  to  understand 
the  pleasure  in  natural  scenery  felt  by  Theocritus  or  Virgil; 
and  I  believe  the  athletic  health  of  our  schoolboys  might 
be  made  perfectly  consistent  with  a  spirit  of  more  courtesy 
and  reverence,  both  for  men  and  things,  than  is  recog- 
nisable in  the  behaviour  of  modern  youth.  Some  year  or 
two  back,  I  was  staying  at  the  Montanvert  to  paint  Alpine 
roses,  and  went  every  day  to  watch  the  budding  of  a 
favourite  bed,  which  was  rounding  into  faultless  bloom 
beneath  a  cirque  of  rock,  high  enough,  as  I  hoped,  and 
close  enough,  to  guard  it  from  rude  eyes  and  plucking 
hands.     But, 

"  Tra  erto  e  piano  era  un  sentiero  ghembo, 
Che  ne  condusse  in  fianco  del'a  lacca," 

and  on  the  day  it  reached  the  fulness  of  its  rubied  fire,  I 
was  standing  near  when  it  was  discovered  by  a  forager  on 
the  flanks  of  a  travelling  school  of  English  and  German 
lads.  He  shouted  to  his  companions,  and  they  swooped 
down  upon  it ;  threw  themselves  into  it,  rolled  over  and 
over  in  it,  shrieked,  hallooed,  and  fought  in  it,  trampled 
it  down,  and  tore  it  up  by  the  roots     breathless  at  last 


PREFACE.  XXXIX 

with  rapture  of  ravage,  they  fixed  the  brightest  of  the 
remnant  blossoms  of  it  in  their  caps,  and  went  on  theii 
way  rejoicing. 

They  left  me  much  to  think  upon ;  partly  respecting 
the  essential  power  of  the  beauty  which  could  so  excite 
them,  and  partly  respecting  the  character  of  the  youth 
which  could  only  be  excited  to  destroy.  But  the  incident 
was  a  perfect  type  of  that  irreverence  for  natural  beauty 
with  respect  to  which  I  said  in  the  text,  at  the  place 
already  indicated,  "You  make  railroads  of  the  aisles  of 
the  cathedrals  of  the  earth,  and  eat  off  their  altars." 
For  indeed  all  true  lovers  of  natural  beauty  hold  it  in 
reverence  so  deep,  that  they  would  as  soon  think 
of  climbing  the  pillars  of  the  choir  of  Beauvais  for 
a  gymnastic  exercise,  as  of  making  a  play-ground  of 
Alpine  snow :  and  they  would  not  risk  one  hour  of  their 
joy  among  the  hill  meadows  on  a  May  morning,  for  the 
fame  or  fortune  of  having  stood  on  every  pinnacle  of  the 
silver  temple,  and  beheld  the  kingdoms  of  the  world 
from  it.  Love  of  excitement  is  so  far  from  being  love 
of  beauty,  that  it  ends  always  in  a  joy  in  its  exact 
reverse ;  joy  in  destruction, — as  of  my  poor  roses, — or  in 
actual  details  of  death  ;  until,  in  the  literature  of  the  day 
"  nothing  is  too  dreadful,  or  too  trivial,  for  the  greed  oi 


xl  PREFACE. 

the  public."*  And  in  politics,  apathy,  irreverence,  and 
lust  of  luxury  go  hand  in  hand,  until  the  best  solem- 
nization which  can  be  conceived  for  the  greatest  event 
in  modern  European  history,  the  crowning  of  Florence 
capital  of  Italy,  is  the  accursed  and  ill-omened  folly  of 
casting  down  her  old  walls,  and  surrounding  her  with  a 
"  boulevard ;"  and  this  at  the  very  time  when  every 
stone  of  her  ancient  cities  is  more  precious  to  her  than 
the  gems  of  a  Urim  breastplate,  and  when  every  nerve 
of  her  heart  and  brain  should  have  been  strained 
to  redeem  her  guilt  and  fulfil  her  freedom.  It  is  not  by 
making  roads  round  Florence,  but  through  Calabria,  that 
she  should  begin  her  Eoman  causeway  work  again;  and 
her  fate  points  her  march,  not  on  boulevards  by  Arno, 
but  waist-deep  in  the  lagoons  at  Venice.  Not  yet,  indeed , 
but  five  years  of  patience  and  discipline  of  her  youth 
would  accomplish  her  power,  and  sweep  the  martello 
towers  from  the  cliffs  of  Verona,  and  the  ramparts  from  the 
marsh  of  Mestre.  But  she  will  not  teach  her  youth  that 
discipline  on  boulevards. 

Strange,  that  while  we  both,  French  and  English,  can 
give  lessons  in  war,  we  only  corrupt  other  nations  when 
they  imitate  either  our  pleasures  or  our  industries.     We 
•  PaU  MaU  Gazette,  August  15th,  article  on  the  Forward  murders 


PEEFACE.  xli 

English,  had  we  loved  Switzerland  indeed,  should  have  stri 
yen  to  elevate,  but  not  to  disturb,  the  simplicity  of  her  people, 
by  teaching  them  the  sacredness  of  their  fields  and  waters, 
the  honour  of  their  pastoral  and  burgher  life,  and  the 
fellowship  in  glory  of  the  grey  turreted  walls  round  theii 
ancient  cities,  with  their  cottages  in  their  fair  groups  by  the 
forest  and  lake.  Beautiful,  indeed,  upon  the  mountains, 
had  been  the  feet  of  any  who  had  spoken  peace  to  their 
children ; — who  had  taught  those  princely  peasants  to 
remember  their  lineage,  and  their  league  with  the  rocks  of 
the  field ;  that  so  they  might  keep  their  mountain  waters 
pure,  and  their  mountain  paths  peaceful,  and  their  tradi- 
tions of  domestic  life  holy.  "We  have  taught  them 
(incapable  by  circumstances  and  position  of  ever  becoming 
a  great  commercial  nation),  all  the  foulness  of  the  modern 
lust  of  wealth,  without  its  practical  intelligences ;  and  we 
have  developed  exactly  the  weakness  of  their  temperament 
by  which  they  are  liable  to  meanest  ruin.  Of  the  ancient 
architecture  and  most  expressive  beauty  of  their  country 
there  is  now  little  vestige  left ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  few  rea- 
sons which  console  me  for  the  advance  of  life,  that  I  am  old 
enough  to  remember  the  time  when  the  sweet  waves  of  the 
Reuss  and  Limmat  (now  foul  with  the  refuse  of  manu- 
facture) were   as   crystalline   as   the  heaven  above  them 


xlii  PREFACE. 

when  her  pictured  bridges  and  embattled  towers  ran 
unbroken  round  Lucerne ;  when  the  Ehone  flowed  in  deep- 
green,  softly  dividing  currents  round  the  wooded  ramparts 
of  Geneva ;  and  when  from  the  marble  roof  of  the  western 
vault  of  Milan,  I  could  watch  the  Rose  of  Italy  flush  in  the 
first  morning  light,  before  a  human  foot  had  sullied  its 
summit,  or  the  reddening  dawn  on  its  rocks  taken  shadow 
of  sadness  from  the  crimson  which  long  ago  stained  the 
ripples  of  Otterburu. 


3{'ri-r   '"^fi 


SESAME  AND  LILIES. 


LECTURE    I.— SESAME. 
OF  kings'  treastjrles. 

"You  shall  each  have  a  cake  of  sesame, — and  ten  pound.** 

— LuciAN :  The  Fisherman. 

I  BELIEVE,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  my  first  duty  this  even 
iiig  is  to  ask  your  pardon  for  the  ambiguity  of  title  undei 
which  the  subject  of  lecture  has  been  announced;  and  for 
having  endeavoured,  as  you  may  ultimately  think,  to  obtain 
your  audience  mider  false  pretences.  For  indeed  I  am  not 
going  to  talk  of  kings,  known  as  regnant,  nor  of  treasuries, 
understood  to  contain  wealth ;  but  of  quite  another  order  of 
royalty,  and  material  of  riches,  than  those  usually  acknow- 
ledged. And  I  had  even  intended  to  ask  your  attention  for 
a  little  while  on  trust,  and  (as  sometimes  one  contrives  in 
taking  a  friend  to  see  a  favourite  piece  of  scenery)  to  hide 
what  I  wanted  most  to  show,  with  such  imperfect  cunning 
as  I  might,  until  we  had  unexpectedly  reached  the  best 
point  of  view  by  winding  paths.     But  since  my  good  plain* 


6  SESAME    AND   LILIES. 

spoken  friend,  Canon  Anson,  has  already  partly  anticipated 
my  reserved  "trot  for  the  avenue"  in  his  first  advertised 
title  of  subject,  "How  and  What  to  Read;" — and  as  also  I 
liave  heard  it.  aaid,  by  men  practised  in  public  address,  that 
hearers  are  never  so  much  fatigued  as  by  the  endeavour  to 
follow  a  speaker  who  gives  them  no  clue  to  his  purpose,  I 
will  take  the  slight  mask  off  at  once,  and  tell  you  plainly 
that  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  books;  and  about  the 
way  we  read  them,  and  could,  or  should  read  them.  A 
grave  subject,  you  will  say;  and  a  wide  one!  Yes;  so 
wide  that  I  shall  make  no  effort  to  touch  the  compass  of 
it.  I  will  try  only  to  bring  before  you  a  few  simple  tli oughts 
about  reading,  which  press  themselves  upon  me  every  day 
more  deeply,  as  I  watch  the  course  of  the  public  mind  with 
respect  to  our  daily  enlarging  means  of  education,  and  the 
answeringly  wider  spreading,  on  the  levels,  of  the  irrigation 
of  literature.  It  happens  that  I  have  practically  some  con- 
nexion with  schools  for  different  classes  of  youth;  and  I 
receive  many  letters  from  parents  respecting  the  education 
of  their  children.  In  the  mass  of  these  letters,  I  am  always 
Btnick  by  the  precedence  which  the  idea  of  a  "  position  m 
ifo"  takes  above  all  other  thoughts  in  the  parents' — more 
CBpecially  in  the  mothers' — minds.  "The  education  befit" 
ting  such  and  such  a  station  in  life'*'' — this  is  the  phrase, 
this  the  object,  always.    They  never  seek,  as  far  as  I  can 


OF   KINGS'   TPwEASURIES.  7 

make  out,  .an  education  good  in  itself:  tht  conception  of 
abstract  lightness  in  training  rarely  seems  reached  by  the 
writers.  But  an  education  "which  shall  keep  a  good  coat 
on  my  son's  back ; — an  education  which  shall  enable  him  tc 
ring  with  confidence  the  visitors'  bell  at  double-belled  doors ; 
— education  which  shall  result  ultimately  in  establishment  of 
a  double-belled  door  to  his  own  house ;  in  a  word,  which 
ehall  lead  to  advancement  in  life."  It  never  seems  to  occur 
to  the  parents  that  there  may  be  an  education  which,  in  itself 
is  advancement  in  Life  ; — that  any  other  than  that  may  per- 
hnps  be  advancement  in  Death ;  and  that  this  essential  edu- 
cation might  be  more  easily  got,  or  given,  than  they  fancy 
if  they  set  about  it  in  the  right  way;  while  it  is  for  no 
price,  and  by  no  favour,  to  be  got,  if  they  set  about  it  in 
the  wrong. 

Indeed,  among  the  ideas  most  prevalent  and  effective  in 
the  mind  of  this  busiest  of  countries,  I  suppose  the  first — • 
at  least  that  which  is  confessed  with  the  greatest  frankness, 
and  put  forward  as  the  fittest  stimulus  to  youthful  exertion 
— is  this  of  "  Advancement  in  life."  My  main  purpose  this 
evening  is  to  determine,  with  you,  what  this  idea  practically 
includes,  and  what  it  should  include. 

Practically,  then,  at  present,  "  advancement  in  life"  means 
becoming  conspicuous  in  life ; — obtaining  a  position  which 
shall  be  acknowledged  by  others  to  be  respectable  or  lionoup 


8  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

able.  We  do  not  understand  by  this  advancement,  in  gcn^ 
ral,  the  mere  making  of  money,  but  the  being  known  to 
have  made  it ;  not  the  accomplishment  of  any  gi'eat  aim, 
but  the  being  seen  to  have  accomplished  it.  In  a  word,  we 
liiean  the  gratification  of  our  thirst  for  applause.  That 
thirst,  if  the  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds,  is  also  the  first 
infirmity  of  weak  ones ;  and,  on  the  whole,  the  strongest 
impulsive  influence  of  average  humanity :  the  greatest  efforts 
of  the  race  have  always  been  traceable  to  the  love  of  praise, 
as  its  greatest  catastrophes  to  the  love  of  pleasure. 

I  am  not  about  to  attack  or  defend  this  impulse.  I  want 
you  only  to  feel  how  it  lies  at  the  root  of  effort ;  especially 
of  all  modem  effort.  It  is  the  gratification  of  vanity  which 
is,  with  us,  the  stimulus  of  toil,  and  balm  of  repose;  so 
closely  does  it  touch  the  very  springs  of  life,  that  the 
wounding  of  our  vanity  is  always  spoken  of  (and  truly)  as 
in  its  measure  mortal;  we  call  it  "mortification,"  using  the 
same  expression  which  we  should  apply  to  a  gangrenous  and 
incurable  bodily  hurt.  And  although  few  of  us  may  be  phy- 
•icians  enough  to  recognise  the  various  effect  of  this  passion 
upon  health  and  energy,  I  believe  most  honest  men  know ' 
and  would  at  once  acknowledge,  its  leading  power  witl 
tliem  as  a  motive.  The  seaman  does  not  commonly  desire 
to  be  made  captain,  only  because  he  knows  he  can  manage 
the  ship  better  than  any  other  sailor  on  board     He  wantf 


9 

to  be  made  captain  that  he  may  be  called  captain.  The 
clergyman  does  not  usually  want  to  be  made  a  bishop  only 
because  he  believes  that  no  other  hand  can,  as  firmly  as 
Iiis,  direct  the  diocese  through  its  difficulties.  He  wants  to 
be  made  bishop  primarily  that  he  may  be  called  "  My  Lord." 
And  a  prince  does  not  usually  desire  to  enlarge,  or  a  subject 
to  gain,  a  kingdom  because  he  believes  that  no  one  else  can 
as  well  serve  the  state  upon  the  throne ;  but,  briefly,  because 
he  wishes  to  be  addressed  as  "Your  Majesty,"  by  as  many 
lips  as  may  be  biought  to  such  utterance. 

This,  then,  being  the  main  idea  of  advancement  in  life, 
the  force  of  it  applies,  for  all  of  us,  according  to  our  station, 
particularly  to  that  secondary  result  of  such  advancement 
which  we  call  *' getting  into  good  society."  We  want  to 
get  into  good  society,  not  that  we  may  have  it,  but  that 
we  may  be  seen  in  it ;  and  our  notion  of  its  goodness  de- 
pends primarily  on  its  conspicuousness. 

Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  pause  for  a  moment  to  put  what  1 
fear  you  may  think  an  impertinent  question?  I  never  can 
go  on  with  an  address  unless  I  feel,  or  know,  that  my  audi- 
ence are  either  with  me  or  against  me :  (I  do  not  much  care 
which,  in  beginning;)  but  I  must  know  where  they  are;  and 
I  would  fain  find  out,  at  this  instant,  whether  you  think  1 
am  putting  the  motives  of  popular  action  too  low.     I  am 

resolved  to-night,  to  state  them  low  enough  to  be  admitted 

1* 


10  SESAME   AND  LILIES. 

as  probable ;  for  whenever,  in  my  writings  on  Political  Eco 
nomy,  I  assume  that  a  little  honesty,  or  generosity, — or  what 
used  to  be  called  "  virtue  " — may  be  calculated  upon  as  a 
human  motive  of  action.,  people  always  answer  me,  saying, 
"You  must  not  calculate  on  that:  that  is  not  in  human 
nature:  you  must  not  assume  anything  to  be  common  to 
men  but  acquisitiveness  and  jealousy;  no  other  feeling  ever 
has  influence  on  them,  except  accidentally,  and  in  matters 
out  of  the  way  of  business."  I  begin  accordingly  to-night 
low  down  in  the  scale  of  motives ;  but  I  must  know  if  you 
think  me  right  in  doing  so.  Therefore,  let  me  ask  tliose  who 
admit  the  love  of  praise  to  be  usually  the  strongest  motive 
in  men's  minds  in  seeking  advancement,  and  the  honest 
desire  of  doing  any  kind  of  duty  to  be  an  entirely  secondary 
one,  to  hold  up  their  hands.  (About  a  dozen  of  hands  held 
up — the  audience  partly  not  being  sure  the  lecturer  is  serious^ 
and  partly  shy  of  expr^sing  opinion.)  I  am  quite  serious 
— I  really  do  want  to  know  ♦what  you  think;  however,  I  can 
judge  by  putting  the  reverse  question.  Will  those  who 
think  that  duty  is  generally  the  first,  and  love  of  praise  tho 
second  motive,  hold  up  their  hands  ?  ( One  hand  reported  to 
lave  been  held  up,  behind  the  lecturer.)  Very  good :  I  see 
you  are  with  me,  and  that  you  think  I  have  not  begun  too 
near  the  ground.  Now,  without  teasing  you  by  putting 
farther  question,  I  venture  to  assume  that  you  will  admit 


n 

duty  as  at  least  a  secondary  or  tertiary  motive.  You  think 
that  the  desire  of  doing  something  useful,  or  obtaining  some 
renl  good,  is  indeed  an  existent  collateral  idea,  though  a 
secondary  one,  in  most  men's  desire  of  advancement.  You 
will  grant  that  moderately  honest  men  desire  place  and 
office,  at  least  in  some  measure  for  the  sake  of  their  benefi 
cent  power ;  and  would  wish  to  associate  rather  with  sensi 
ble  and  well-informed  persons  than  with  fools  and  ignorant 
persons,  whetlier  they  are  seen  in  the  company  of  the  sensi- 
ble ones  or  not.  And  finally,  without  being  troubled  by 
repetition  of  any  common  truisms  about  the  preciousness  of 
friends,  and  the  influence  of  companions,  you  will  admit, 
doubtless,  that  according  to  the  sincerity  of  our  desire  that 
our  friends  may  be  tnie,  and  our  companions  wise, — and  in 
proportion  to  the  earnestness  and  discretion  with  which  we 
choose  both,  will  be  the  general  chances  of  our  happiness 
and  usefulness. 

But,  granting  that  we  had  both  the  will  and  the  sense  to 
choose  our  friends  well,  how  few  of  us  have  the  power!  or, 
at  least,  how  limited,  for  most,  is  the  sj)here  of  choice  I 
Nearly  all  our  associations  are  determined  by  chance  or 
necessity  ;  and  restricted  within  a  narrow  circle.  "We  can- 
not know  whom  we  would  ;  and  those  whom  we  know,  we 
cannot  have  at  our  side  when  w^e  most  need  them.  All  the 
higher  circles  of  human  intelligence  are,  to  those  beneatli, 


12  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

only  momentarily  and  partially  open.  We  may,  by  good 
furtimr,  obtain  a  glimpse  of  a  great  poet,  and  hear  the  sound 
of  his  voice ;  or  put  a  question  to  a  man  of  science,  and  be 
answered  good-humouredly.  We  may  intrude  ten  minutes' 
talk  on  a  cabinet  minister,  answered  probably  with  words 
worse  than  silence,  being  deceptive ;  or  snatch,  once  or  twice 
in  our  lives,  the  privilege  of  throwing  a  bouquet  in  the  path 
of  a  Princess,  or  arresting  the  kind  glance  of  a  Queen.  And 
yet  these  momentary  chances  we  covet ;  and  spend  our  years, 
and  passions,  and  powers  in  pursuit  of  little  more  than 
these ;  while,  meantime,  there  is  a  society  continually  open 
to  us,  of  people  who  will  talk  to  us  as  long  as  we  like,  what- 
ever our  rank  or  occupation  ; — talk  to  us  in  the  best  words 
they  can  choose,  and  with  thanks  if  we  listen  to  them.  And 
this  society,  because  it  is  so  numerous  and  so  gentle, — and 
can  be  kept  waiting  round  us  all  day  long,  not  to  grant  audi- 
ence, but  to  gain  it ; — kings  and  statesmen  lingering  patiently 
in  those  plainly  furnished  and  narrow  anterooms,  our  book- 
case shelves, — we  make  no  account  of  that  company, — ^per- 
haps never  listen  to  a  word  they  would  say,  all  day  long  I 

You  may  tell  me,  perhaps,  or  think  within  yourselves,  that 
the  apathy  with  which  we  regard  this  company  of  the  noble, 
vrho  are  praying  us  to  listen  to  them,  and  the  passion  with 
which  we  pursue  the  company,  probably  of  the  ignoble,  who 
despise  us,  or  who  have  nothing  to  teach  us,  are  grounded  in 


OF  kings'  treasukies.  13 

this, — that  we  can  see  the  faces  of  the  living  men,  and  it  ia 
themselves,  and  not  their  sayings,  with  which  we  desire  to 
become  familiar.  But  it  is  not  so.  Suppose  you  never  were 
to  see  their  faces ; — suppose  you  could  be  put  behind  a  screen 
in  the  statesman's  cabinet,  or  the  prince's  chamber,  would 
you  not  be  glad  to  listen  to  their  words,  though  you  were 
forbidden  to  advance  beyond  the  screen?  And  when  the 
screen  is  only  a  little  less,  folded  in  two,  instead  of  four,  and 
you  can  be  hidden  behind  the  cover  of  the  two  boards  that 
bind  a  book,  and  listen,  all  day  long,  not  to  the  casual  talk, 
but  to  the  studied,  determined,  chosen  addresses  of  the  wisest 
of  men ; — this  station  of  audience,  and  honourable  privy 
council,  you  despise  I 

But  perhaps  you  will  say  that  it  is  because  the  living 
people  talk  of  things  that  are  passing,  and  are  of  immediate 
interest  to  you,  that  you  desire  to  hear  them.  Nay;  that 
cannot  be  so,  for  the  living  people  will  themselves  tell  you 
about  passing  matters,  much  better  in  their  writings  than  in 
their  careless  talk.  But  I  admit  that  this  motive  does  in.flu» 
ence  you,  so  far  as  you  nrefer  those  rapid  and  ephemeral 
writings  to  slow  and  enduring  writings — books,  properly  so 
called.  For  all  books  are  divisible  into  two  classes,  the 
books  of  the  hour,  and  the  books  of  all  time.  Maik  this  dis* 
tinction — it  is  not  one  of  quality  only.  It  is  not  merely  the 
bad  book  that  does  not  last,  and  the  good  one  that  does.     It 


14  SESAME   AND  LILIES. 

is  a  distinction  of  species.  There  are  good  books  fcr  the 
hour,  and  good  ones  for  all  time ;  bad  books  for  the  hour, 
and  bad  ones  for  all  time.  I  must  define  the  two  kinds 
before  I  go  farther. 

The  good  book  of  the  hour,  then, — I  do  not  speak  of  the 
bad  ones — is  simply  the  useful  or  pleasant  talk  of  some  per- 
son whom  you  cannot  otherwise  converse  with,  printed  for 
you.  Very  useful  often,  telling  you  what  you  need  to  know; 
veiy  pleasant  often,  as  a  sensible  friend's  present  talk  would 
be.  These  bright  accounts  of  travels;  good-humoured  and 
witty  discussions  of  question ;  lively  or  pathetic  story- 
telling in  the  form  of  novel ;  firm  fact-telling,  by  the  real 
agents  concerned  in  the  events  of  passing  history; — all  these 
books  of  the  hour,  multipljdng  among  us  as  education 
becomes  more  general,  are  a  peculiar  characteristic  and 
possession  of  the  present  age:  we  ought  to  be  entirely 
thankful  for  tliem,  and  entirely  ashamed  of  ourselves  if  we 
make  no  good  use  of  them.  But  we  make  the  worst  pos- 
sible use,  if  we  allow  them  to  usurp  the  place  of  true  books : 
for,  strictly  speaking,  they  are  not  books  at  all,  but  merely 
letters  or  newspapers  in  good  print.  Our  friend's*  letter 
nay  be  delightful,  or  necessary,  to-day:  whether  worth 
keeping  or  not,  is  to  be  considered.  The  newspaper  may 
be  entirely  proper  at  breakfast  time,  but  assuredly  it  is  not 
reading  for  all  day.    So,  though  bound  up  in  a  volume,  the 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  15 

long  letter  which  gives  you  so  pleasant  an  account  of  tha 
inns,  and  roads,  and  weather  last  year  at  such  a  place,  oi 
which  tells  you  that  amusing  story,  or  gives  you  the  real 
circumstances  of  such  and  such  events,  however  valuable 
foi"  occasional  reference,  may  not  be,  in  the  real  sense  of  the 
word,  a  "book"  at  all,  nor,  in  the  real  sense,  to  be  "  read." 
A  book  is  essentially  not  a  talked  thing,  but  a  written  thing ; 
and  written,  not  with  the  view  of  mere  communication,  but 
of  permanence.  The  book  of  talk  is  printed  only  because 
its  author  cannot  speak  to  thousands  of  people  at  once ;  if 
he  could,  he  would — the  volume  is  mere  inultiplication  oi 
his  voice.  You  cannot  talk  to  your  friend  in  India ;  if  you 
could,  you  would ;  you  write  instead :  that  is  mere  con^ 
veyance  of  voice.  But  a  book  is  written,  not  to  multiply 
the  voice  merely,  not  to  carry  it  merely,  but  to  preserve  it. 
The  author  has  something  to  say  which  he  perceives  to 
be  true  and  useful,  or  helpfully  beautiful.  So  far  as  he 
knows,  no  one  has  yet  said  it ;  so  far  as  he  knows,  no  one 
else  can  say  it.  He  is  bound  to  say  it,  clearly  and  melo- 
diously if  he  may;  clearly,  at  all  events.  In  the  sum  of. 
his  life  he  finds  this  to  be  the  thing,  or  group  of  things, 
manifest  to  him  ; — this  the  piece  of  true  know^ledge,  or  sight, 
which  his  share  of  sunshine  and  earth  has  permitted  him 
to  seize.  He  would  fain  set  it  down  for  ever ;  engrave  it 
on  rock,  if  he  could  ;  saying,   "  This  is  the  best  of  me  ;  foi 


16  SESAME  AND   LILIES. 

the  rest,  I  ate,  and  drank,  and  slept,  loved,  and  hated,  iika 
another ;  my  life  was  as  the  vapour,  and  is  not ;  but  this 
I  sa^y  and  knew :  this,  if  anything  of  mine,  is  worth  your 
memory."  That  is  his  "  writing ;  "  it  is,  in  his  small  human 
way,  and  with  whatever  degree  of  true  inspiration  is  in  him, 
his  inscription,  or  scripture.    That  is  a  "  Book." 

Perhaps  you  think  no  books  were  ever  so  written  ? 

But,  again,  I  ask  you,  do  you  at  all  believe  in  honesty, 
or  at  all  in  kindness?  or  do  you  think  there  is  never  any 
honesty  or  benevolence  in  wise  people?  None  of  us,  I 
hope,  are  so  unhappy  as  to  think  that.  Well,  whatever  bit 
of  a  wise  man's  work  is  honestly  and  benevolently  done, 
that  bit  is  his  book,  or  his  piece  of  art.*  It  is  mixed  always 
with  evil  fragments— ill-done,  redundant,  affected  work. 
But  if  you  read  rightly,  you  will  easily  discover  the  true 
bits,  and  those  are  the  book. 

Now  books  of  this  kind  have  been  written  in  all  ages  by 
their  greatest  men  ; — by  great  leaders,  great  statesmen,  and 
great  thinkers.  These  are  all  at  your  choice ;  and  life  is 
sliort.  You  have  heard  as  much  before; — yet  have  you 
measured  and  mapped  out  this  short  life  and  its  possibili- 
ties  ?  Do  you  know,  if  you  read  this,  that  you  cannot  read 
that — that  what  you  lose  to-day  you  cannot  gain  to-morrow? 
Will  you  go  and  gossip  with  your  housemaid,  or  your  etable- 
boy,  wlien  you  may  talk  with  queens  and  kings;  or  flattei 

*  Note  this  sentence  carefullj,  and  compare  the  Q,u6en.  of  Vu  Aat 
S10fl. 


OF  kings'  TKEj^SURIES.  17 

yoursoh  es  that  it  is  with  any  worthy  consciousness  of  yout 
own  claims  to  resptct  that  you  jostle  with  the  common 
crowd  for  entree  here,  and  audience  there,  when  all  the 
while  this  eternal  court  is  open  to  you,  with  its  society  wide 
as  the  world,  multitudinous  as  its  days,  the  chosen,  and  the 
mighty,  of  every  place  and  time?  Into  that  you  may  enter 
always ;  in  that  you  may  take  fellowship  and  rank  accord- 
mg  to  your  wish ;  from  that,  once  entered  into  it,  you  can 
never  be  outcast  but  by  your  own  fault;  by  your  aristocracy 
of  companionship  there,  your  own  inherent  aristocracy  will 
be  assuredly  tested,  and  the  motives  with  which  you  strive 
to  take  high  place  in  the  society  of  the  living,  measured,  aa 
to  all  the  truth  and  sincerity  that  are  in  them,  by  the  place 
you  desire  to  take  in  this  company  of  the  Dead. 

"  The  place  you  desire,"  and  the  place  you  Jit  yourself 
for^  I  must  also  say ;  because,  observe,  this  court  of  the 
past  differs  from  all  living  aristocracy  in  this  : — it  is  open  to 
labour  and  to  merit,  but  to  nothing  else.  No  wealth  will 
bribe,  no  name  overawe,  no  artifice  deceive,  the  guardian 
of  those  Elysian  gates.  In  the  deep  sense,  no  vile  or  vulgar 
person  ever  enters  there.  At  the  portieres  of  that  silent 
Faubourg  St.  Germain,  there  is  but  brief  question,  "  Do 
you  deserve  to  enter  ?  "  "  Pass.  Do  you  ask  to  be  the 
companion  of  nobles  ?  Make  yourself  noble,  and  you  shall 
be.     Do  you  long  for  the  conversation  of  the  wise  ?    Loari} 


18  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

to  undei  stand  it,  and  you  shall  hear  it.  But  on  other 
terms  ? — no.  If  you  will  not  rise  to  us,  we  cannot  stoop  to 
you.  The  living  lord  may  assume  courtesy,  the  living  philo- 
Bopher  explain  his  thought  to  you  with  considerable  pain; 
but  here  we  neither  feign  nor  interpret ;  you  must  rise  lo  the 
level  of  our  thoughts  if  you  would  be  gladdened  by  them, 
and  share  our  feelings,  if  you  would  recognise  our  presence." 

This,  then,  is  what  you  have  to  do,  and  I  admit  that  it 
is  much.  You  must,  in  a  word,  love  these  people,  if  you 
are  to  be  among  them.  ISTo  ambition  is  of  any  use.  They 
dcorn  your  ambition.  You  must  love  them,  and  show  your 
love  in  these  two  following  ways. 

I. — ^First,  by  a  true  desire  to  be  taught  by  them,  and 
to  enter  into  their  thoughts.  To  enter  into  theirs,  observe ; 
not  to  find  your  own  expressed  by  them.  If  the  person 
who  wrote  the  book  is  not  wiser  than  you,  you  need  not 
read  it ;  if  he  be,  he  will  think  differently  from  you  in  many 
respects. 

Very  ready  we  are  to  say  of  a  book,  "  How  good  this  is — 
that's  exactly  what  I  think !"  But  the  right  feeling  is,  "  How 
strange  that  is  I  I  never  thought  of  that  before,  and  yet  I 
see  it  is  true ;  or  if  I  do  not  now,  I  hope  I  shall,  some  day." 
Dut  whether  thus  submissively  or  not,  at  least  be  sure  that 
you  go  to  the  author  to  get  at  hia  meaning,  not  to  find  youi*8, 
Ju  Ige  it  afterwards,  if  you  think  yourself  qualified  to  do  so  j 


OF  kings'  treasueies.  19 

but  ascertain  it  first.  And  be  sure  also,  if  the  author  is  worth 
aDytbing,  that  you  will  not  get  at  his  meaning  all  at  once  ; — 
nay,  that  at  his  whole  meaning  you  will  not  for  a  long  tima 
arrive  in  any  wise.  Not  that  he  does  not  say  what  he  means 
and  in  strong  words  too  ;  but  he  cannot  say  it  all ;  and  what  . 
is  more  strange,  will  not,  but  in  a  hidden  way  and  in  parables, 
in  order  that  he  may  be  sure  you  want  it.  I  cannot  quite  sea 
the  reason  of  this,  nor  analyse  that  cruel  reticence  in  the 
breasts  of  wise  men  which  makes  them  always  hide  their 
deeper  thought.  They  do  not  give  it  you  by  way  of  help, 
but  of  reward,  and  will  make  themselves  sure  that  you 
deserve  it  before  they  allow  you  to  reach  it.  But  it  is  the 
same  with  the  physical  type  of  wisdom,  gold.  There  seems, 
to  you  and  me,  no  reason  why  the  electric  forces  of  the  earth 
should  not  carry  whatever  there  is  of  gold  within  't  at  once 
to  the  mountain  tops,  so  that  kings  and  people  might  know 
that  all  the  gold  they  could  get  was  there ;  and  without  any 
trouble  of  digging,  or  anxiety,  or  chance,  or  waste  of  time, 
cut  it  away,  and  coin  as  much  as  they  needed.  But  Nature 
does  not  manage  it  so.  She  puts  it  in  little  fissures  in  the 
earth,  nobody  knows  where :  you  may  dig  long  and  find 
none  ;  you  must  dig  painfully  to  find  any. 

And  it  is  just  the  same  with  men's  best  wisdom.  When 
you  come  to  a  good  book,  you  must  ask  yourself,  "  Am  T 
inclined  to  work  as  an  Australian  miner  would  ?     Are  my 


20  SESAME  AND   LILIES. 

pickaxes  and  shovels  in  good  order,  and  am  I  in  good  trim 
myself,  my  sleeves  well  up  to  the  elbow,  and  my  breath  good, 
and  my  temper  ?"  And,  keeping  the  figure  a  little  longei", 
even  at  cost  of  tiresomeness,  for  it  is  a  thoroughly  useful 
one,  the  metal  you  are  in  search  of  being  the  author's  mind 
or  meaning,  his  words  are  as  the  rock  which  you  have  to 
crush  and  smelt  in  order  to  get  at  it.  And  your  pickaxea 
are  your  own  care,  wit,  and  learning ;  your  smelting-furnace 
is  your  own  thoughtful  soul.  Do  not  hope  to  get  at  any 
good  author's  meaning  without  those  tools  and  that  fire; 
often  you  will  need  sharpest,  finest  chiselling,  and  patientest 
fusing,  before  you  can  gather  one  grain  of  the  metal. 

And,  therefore,  first  of  all,  I  tell  you,  earnestly  and  authori- 
tatively, (I  hnow  I  am  right  in  this,)  you  must  get  into  the 
habit  of  looking  intensely  at  words,  and  assuring  yourself  oi 
their  meaning,  syllable  by  syllable — nay,  letter  by  letter. 
For  though  it  is  only  by  reason  of  the  opposition  of  letters 
in  the  function  of  signs,  to  sounds  in  function  of  signs,  that 
the  study  of  books  is  called  "  literature,"  and  that  a  man 
versed  in  it  is  called,  by  the  consent  of  nations,  a  man  of 
letters  instead  of  a  man  of  books,  or  of  words,  you  may  yet 
connect  with  that  accidental  nomenclature  this  real  principle : 
— that  you  might  read  all  the  books  in  the  British  Museum 
(if  you  could  live  long  enough),  and  remain  an  utterly  "  illi- 
terate,"  uneducated  person ;  but  that  if  you  read  ten  pages 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  21 

of  a  good  book,  letter  by  letter, — that  is  to  say,  with  real 
accuracy, — you  are  for  evermore  in  some  measure  an  educated 
person.  The  entire  difference  between  education  and  non- 
education  (as  regards  the  merely  intellectual  part  of  it),  con- 
ists  in  this  accuracy.  A  well-educated  gentleman  may  not 
know  many  languages, — may  not  be  able  to  speak  any  but  hia 
own, — may  have  read  very  few  books.  But  whatever  language 
he  knows,  he  knows  precisely ;  whatever  word  he  pronounces 
he  pronounces  rightly ;  above  all,  he  is  learned  in  i\\e  peerage 
of  words ;  knows  the  words  of  true  descent  and  ancient 
blood,  at  a  glance,  from  words  of  modern  canaille ;  remem- 
bers all  their  ancestry — \\^xv  intermarriages,  distantest  rela- 
tionships, and  the  extent  to  which  they  were  admitted,  and 
offices  they  held,  among  the  national  noblesse  of  words  at 
any  time,  and  in  any  country.  But  an  uneducated  person 
may  know  by  memory  any  number  of  languages,  and  talk 
them  all,  and  yet  truly  know  not  a  word  of  any, — not  a  word 
even  of  his  own.  An  ordinarily  clever  and  sensible  seaman 
will  be  able  to  make  his  way  ashore  at  most  ports ;  yet  he 
has  only  to  speak  a  sentence  of  any  language  to  be  known 
for  an  illiterate  person :  so  also  the  accent,  or  turn  of  expres- 
sion of  a  single  sentence  will  at  once  mark  a  scholar.  And 
this  is  so  strongly  felt,  so  conclusively  admitted  by  educated 
persons,  that  a  false  accent  or  a  mistaken  syllable  is  enough, 
in  the  parliament  of  any  civilized  nation,  to  assign  to  a  man 


22  SESAME    AND   LILIES. 

a  certain  degree  of  inferior  standing  for  ever.  And  this  It 
right;  but  it  is  a  pity  that  the  accuracy  insisted  on  is  not 
greater,  and  required  to  a  serious  purpose.  It  is  right  that  a 
false  Latin  quantity  should  excite  a  smile  in  the  House  of 
Commons;  but  it  is  wrong  that  a  false  English  meaning* 
should  not  excite  a  frgwn  there.  Let  the  accent  of  words  bo 
watched,  by  all  means,  but  let  their  meaning  be  watched 
more  closely  still,  and  fewer  will  do  the  work.  A  few  words 
well  chosen  and  well  distinguished,  will  do  work  that  a  thou- 
sand cannot,  when  every  one  is  acting,  equivocally,  in  the 
function  of  another.  Yes ;  and  words,  if  they  are  not 
watched,  will  do  deadly  work  sometimes.  There  are  masked 
words  droning  and  skulking  about  us  in  Europe  just  now, — 
(there  never  were  so  many,  owing  to  the  spread  of  a  shallow, 
blotching,  blundering,  infectious  "information,"  or  rather 
deformation,  everywhere,  and  to  the  teaching  of  catechisms 
and  phrases  at  schools  instead  of  human  meanings) — there 
are  masked  words  abroad,  I  say,  which  nobody  understands, 
but  which  everybody  uses,  and  most  people  will  also  fight 
for,  live  for,  or  even  die  for,  fancying  they  mean  this,  or  that, 
or  the  other,  of  things  dear  to  them :  for  such  words  wear 
chamieleon  cloaks — "groundlion  "  cloaks,  of  the  colour  of  the 
ground  of  any  man's  fancy :  on  that  ground  they  lie  in  wait, 
and  rond  him  with  a  spring  from  it.  There  were  never  crea« 
lures  of  prey  so  mischievous,  never  .liplomatists  so  cunning, 


OF  kings'  treasuries.         '  23 

riever  poisoners  so  deadly,  as  these  masked  words ;  the}^  are 
the  unjust  stewards  of  all  men's  ideas :  whatever  fancy  or 
favourite  instinct  a  man  most  cherishes,  he  gives  to  his  favoui^ 
He  masked  word  to  take  care  of  for  him;  the  word  at  last 
comes  to  have  an  infinite  power  over  him, — you  cannot  get 
at  him  but  by  its  ministry.  And  in  languages  so  mongrel  in 
breed  as  the  English,  there  is  a  fatal  power  of  equivocation 
put  into  men's  hands,  ahnost  whether  they  will  or  no,  in 
being  able  to  use  Greek  or  Latin  forms  for  a  \vord  when  they^ 
want  it  to  be  respectable,  and  Saxon  or  otherwise  common 
forms  when  they  want  to  discredit  it.  What  a  singular  and 
salutary  effect,  for  instance,  would  be  produced  on  the  minds 
of  people  who  are  in  the  habit  of  taking  the  Form  of  the 
w^ords  they  live  by,  for  the  Power  of  which  those  words  tell 
them,  if  we  always  either  retained,  or  refused,  the  Greek 
Corm  "  biblos,"  or  "  biblion,"  as  the  right  expression  for 
book  " — instead  of  employing  it  only  in  the  one  instance  in 
which  we  wish  to  give  dignity  to  the  idea,  and  translating  it 
everywhere  else.  How  wholesome  it  would  be  for  the  many 
simple  persons  who  worship  the  Letter  of  God's  Word 
Instead  of  its  Spirit,  (just  as  other  idolaters  worship  His  pic 
ture  instead  of  His  presence,)  if,  in  such  places  (for  instance) 
as  Acts  xix.  19  we  retained  the  Greek  expression,  instead  of 
translating  it,  imd  they  had  to  read — "  Many  of  them  also 
which  used  curio  as  arts,  brought  their  bibles  together,  and 


24  SESAME  AOT)  LILIES. 

burnt  them  before  all  men ;  and  tbey  counted  the  price  of 
them,  and  found  it  fifty  thousand  pieces  of  silver!"  Or  if, 
on  the  other  hand,  we  translated  instead  of  retaining  it,  and 
always  spoke  of  "  The  Holy  Book,"  instead  of  "  Holy  Bible,*' 
it  might  come  into  more  heads  than  it  does  at  present  that 
the  Word  of  God,  by  which  the  heavens  were,  of  old,  and 
by  which  they  are  now  kept  in  store,*  cannot  be  made  a 
present  of  to  anybody  in  morocco  binding ;  nor  sown  on  any 
wayside  by  help  either  of  steam  plough  or  steam  press ;  but 
is  nevertheless  being  offered  to  us  daily,  and  by  us  with  con- 
tumely refused ;  and  sown  in  us  daily,  and  by  us  as  instantly 
as  may  be,  choked. 

So,  again,  consider  what  effect  has  been  produced  on  the 
English  vulgar  mind  by  the  use  of  the  sonorous  Latin  form 
"  damno,"  in  translating  the  Greek  KaraKptVo),  when  people 
charitably  wish  to  make  it  forcible  ;  and  the  substitution  of 
the  temperate  "condemn"  for  it,  when  they  choose  to  keep 
it  gentle.  And  what  notable  sermons  have  been  preached 
by  illiterate  clergymen  on — "  He  that  believeth  not  shall  be 
damned  ;"  though  they  would  shrink  with  horror  from  trans- 
lating Heb.  xi.  7,  "The  saving  of  his  house,  by  which  he 
damned  the  world,"  or  John  viii.  12,  "Woman,  hath  no  man 
damned  thee?  She  saith,  No  man.  Lord.  Jesus  answered 
her.  Neither  do  I  damn  thee ;  go  and  sin  no  more."    And 

.8  Peter  iU.  5-7.  ^^^^^^ 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  25 

divisions  in  the  mind  of  Europe,  which  have  cost  seas  of 
blood,  and  in  the  defence  of  which  the  noblest  souls  of  men 
have  been  cast  away  in  frantic  desolation,  countless  as  forest 
leaves — though,  in  the  heart  of  them,  founded  on  deepef 
causes — have  nevertheless  been  rendered  practicably  possi- 
ble, mainly,  by  the  European  adoption  of  the  Greek  word 
for  a  public  meeting,  to  give  peculiar  respectability  to  such 
meetings,  when  held  for  religious  purposes ;  and  other  colla- 
teral equivocations,  such  as  the  vulgar  English  one  of  using 
the  word  "  priest "  as  a  contraction  for  "  presbyter." 

Now,  in  order  to  deal  with  words  rightly,  this  is  the  habit 
you  must  form.  Nearly  every  word  in  your  language  haa 
been  first  a  word  of  some  other  language — of  Saxon,  German, 
French,  Latin,  or  Greek ;  (not  to  speak  of  eastern  and  primi- 
tive dialects.)  And  many  words  have  been  all  these ; — that 
IS  to  say,  have  been  Greek  first,  Latin  next,  French  or  Ger- 
man next,  and  English  last :  undergoing  a  certain  change 
of  sense  and  use  on  the  lips  of  each  nation ;  but  retaining  a 
deep  vital  meaning  which  all  good  scholars  feel  in  employing 
them,  even  at  this  day.  If  you  do  not  know  the  Greek 
alphabet,  learn  it ;  young  or  old — girl  or  boy — whoever  you 
mny  be,  if  you  think  of  reading  seriously  (which,  of  course, 
implies  that  you  have  some  leisure  at  command),  learn  your 
Greek  alphabet ;  then  get  good  dictionaries  of  all  these 
languages,  and  whenever  you  are  in  doubt  about  a  word, 


26  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

hunt  it  down  patiently.  Read  Max  Miiller's  lectures  tho 
roughly,  to  begin  with ;  and,  after  that,  never  let  a  word 
escape  you  that  looks  suspicious.  It  is  severe  work;  hut 
you  will  find  it,  even  at  first,  interesting,  and  at  last,  end- 
lessly amusing.  And  the  general  gain  to  your  character,  in 
power  and  precision,  will  be  quite  incalculable. 

Mind,  this  does  not  imply  knowing,  or  trying  to  know, 
Greek,  or  Latin,  or  French.  It  takes  a  whole  life  to  leani 
rjiy  language  perfectly.  But  you  can  easily  ascertain  the 
meanings  through  which  the  English  word  has  passed;  and 
i  hose  which  in  a  good  writer's  work  it  must  still  bear. 

And  now,  merely  for  example's  sake,  I  will,  with  your 
j^rmission,  read  a  few  lines  of  a  true  book  with  you,  care- 
fully ;  and  see  what  will  come  out  of  them.  I  will  take  a 
book  perfectly  known  to  you  all ;  No  English  words  are  more 
familiar  to  us,  yet  nothing  perhaps  has  been  less  read  with 
BUicerity.     I  will  take  these  few  following  lines  of  Lycidas. 

*'Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 

The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain, 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain), 

He  shook  his  mifred  locks,  and  stern  bespake, 

How  well  could  I  have  spar'd  for  thee,  young  swain, 

Bnow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 

Creep  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  1 


OF  kings'  treasueies.  27 

Of  otliei  care  they  .ittle  reckoning  make, 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest; 

Blind  mouths!  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  sheep-liouk,  or  have  learn'd  aught  else,  tlie  least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdsman's  art  belongs  1 

What  recks  it  them  ?  What  need  they  ?  They  are  sped ; 

And  when  they  hst,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wietched  straw; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 

But  swoln  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread; 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said." 

Let  us  think  over  this  passage,  and  examine  its  words. 
First,  is  it  not  singular  to  find  Milton  assigning  to  St. 
Peter,  not  only  his  full  episcopal  function,  but  the  very  types 
of  it  which  Protestants  usually  refuse  most  passionately  ? 
His  ''  mitred "  locks !  Milton  was  no  Bishop-lover ;  how 
comes  St.  Peter  to  be  "  mitred  ?  "  *'  Two  massy  keys  he 
bore."  Is  this,  then,  the  power  of  the  keys  claimed  by  the 
Bishops  of  Rome,  and  is  it  acknowledged  here  by  Milton 
only  in  a  poetical  licence,  for  the  sake  of  its  picturesqueness, 
that  he  may  get  the  gleam  of  the  golden  keys  to  help  his 
effect?  Do  not  think  it.  Great  men  do  not  play  stage 
tricks  with  doctrines  of  life  and  death  :  only  little  men  do 


28  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

that.  Miltou  means  what  he  says ;  and  means  it  with  his 
might  too — IS  gomg  to  put  the  whole  strength  of  his  spirit 
presently  into  the  saying  of  it.  For  though  not  a  Jover  of 
Ihlse  bishops,  he  was  a  lover  of  true  ones ;  and  the  Lake- 
pilot  is  liere,  in  his  thoughts,  the  type  and  head  of  true  epis 
copal  power.  For  Milton  reads  that  text,  "  I  will  give  unto 
thee  the  keys  of  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  "  quite  honestly. 
Puritan  though  he  be,  he  would  not  blot  it  out  of  the  book 
because  there  have  been  bad  bishops ;  nay,  in  order  to  under- 
stand him,  we  must  understand  that  verse  first ;  it  will  not 
do  to  eye  it  askance,  or  whisper  it  under  our  breath,  as  if  it 
were  a  weapon  of  an  adverse  sect.  It  is  a  solemn,  univer- 
sal assertion,  deeply  to  be  kept  in  mind  by  all  sects.  But 
perhaps  we  shall  be  better  able  to  reason  on  it  if  we  go  on  a 
little  farther,  and  come  back  to  it.  For  clearly,  this  marked 
insistance  on  the  power  of  the  true  episcopate  is  to  make  us 
feel  more  weightily  what  is  to  be  charged  against  the  false 
claimants  of  episcopate  ;  or  generally,  against  false  claimants 
of  power  and  rank  in  the  body  of  the  clergy;  they  who,  "for 
their  bellies'  sake,  creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  tho 
«<)ld.» 

Do  not  think  Milton  uses  those  three  words  to  fill  up  hi? 
verse,  as  a  loose  writer  would.  He  needs  all  the  three ; 
specially  those  three,  and  no  more  than  those — "  creep,"  and 
"intrude,"   and  "climb;"  no  other   words  would  or  could 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  29 

serve  the  turn,  and  no  more  could  be  added.  For  they 
exliaustively  comprehend  the  three  classes,  correspondent  to 
the  tliree  cliaracters,  of  men  wlio  dishonestly  seek  ecclesiasti 
cal  power.  First,  those  who  "  creep'^  into  the  fold ;  who  do 
not  care  for  office,  nor  name,  but  for  secret  influence,  and  do 
all  things  occultly  and  cunningly,  consenting  to  any  servility 
of  office  or  conduct,  so  only  that  they  may  intimately  discern, 
and  unawares  direct,  the  minds  of  men.  Then  those  who 
"  intrude"  (thrust,  that  is)  themselves  into  the  fold,  who  by 
natural  insolence  of  heart,  and  stout  eloquence  of  tongue, 
and  fearlessly  perseverant  self-assertion,  obtain  hearing  and 
authority  with  the  common  crowd.  Lastly,  those  who 
"  climb,"  who,  by  labour  and  learning,  both  stout  and  sound, 
but  selfishly  exerted  in  the  cause  of  their  own  ambition,  gain 
high  dignities  and  authorities,  and  become  "  lords  over  the 
heritage,",  though  not  "ensamples  to  the  flock." 
Now  go  on : — 

"  Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make, 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast 
Blind  mouths — " 

I  piausc  again,  for  this  is  a  strange  expression ;  a  broken 
metaphor,  one  might  think,  careless  and  unscholarly. 

Not  so :  its  very  audacity  and  pithiness  are  intended  to 


30  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

make  us  look  close  at  tlie  phrase  and  remember  it.  Those 
two  monosyllables  express  the  precisely  accurate  coiitrariea 
of  right  character,  in  the  two  great  offices  of  the  Chui'ch — 
those  of  bishop  and  pastor. 

A  Bishop  means  a  person  who  sees. 

A  Pastor  means  one  who  feeds. 

The  most  unbishoply  character  a  man  can  have  is  therefore 
to  be  Blind. 

The  most  unpastoral  is,  instead  of  feeding,  to  want  to  be 
fed, — to  be  a  Mouth. 

Take  the  two  reverses  together,  and  you  have  "blind 
mouths."  We  may  advisably  follow  out  this  idea  a  little. 
Nearly  all  the  evils  in  the  Church  have  arisen  from  bishops 
desiring  power  more  than  light.  They  want  authority,  not 
outlook.  Whereas  their  real  office  is  not  to  rule  ;  though  it 
may  be  vigorously  to  exhort  and  rebuke;  it  is  the  king's 
office  to  rule ;  the  bishop's  office  is  to  oversee  the  flock ;  to 
number  it,  sheep  by  sheep;  to  be  ready  always  to  give  full 
account  of  it.  Now  it  is  clear  he  cannot  give  account  of  the 
souls,  if  he  has  not  so  much  as  numbered  the  bodies  of  his 
ilock.  The  first  thing,  therefore,  that  a  bishop  has  to  do  la 
at  least  to  put  himself  in  a  position  in  which,  at  any  moment, 
he  can  obtain  the  history  from  childhood  of  every  living  sou/ 
in  his  diocese,  and  of  its  present  state.  Down  in  that  back 
street,  Bill,  and  Nancy,  knocking  each  other's  teeth  out  I — 


OF  kings'  treasukies.  81 

Does  the  bishop  know  all  about  it?  Has  he  his  eye  upon 
them  ?  Has  he  had  his  eye  upon  them  ?  Can  he  circum* 
Btantially  explain  to  us  how  Bill  got  into  the  habit  of  beating 
Nancy  about  the  head?  If  he  cannot,  he  is  no  bishop 
though  he  had  a  mitre  as  h.gh  as  Salisbury  steeple ;  he  is  no 
bisliop, — he  has  sought  to  be  at  the  helm  instead  of  the 
masthead  ;  he  has  no  sight  of  things.  "  Nay,"  you  say,  it  is 
not  his  duty  to  look  after  Bill  in  the  back  street.  What ! 
the  fat  sheep  that  have  full  fleeces — you  think  it  is  only  those 
he  should  look  after,  while  (go  back  to  your  Milton)  "  the 
hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed,  besides  what  the  grim 
wolf,  with  privy  paw"  (bishops  knowing  nothing  about  it) 
"  daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said  ?  " 

"  But  that's  not  our  idea  of  a  bishop."*  Perhaps  not ;  but 
it  was  St.  Paul's;  and  it  was  Milton's.  They  may  be  right, 
or  we  may  be  ;  but  we  must  not  think  we  are  reading  either 
one  or  the  other  by  putting  our  meaning  into  their  words. 

I  go  on. 

"But,  swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw.'* 

This  is  to  meet  the  vulgar  answer  that  "if  the  poor  are  not 
lOokcd  after  in  their  bodies,  they  are  in  their  souls;  they 
have  spiritual  food." 

And  Milton  says,  "They  have  no  such  thing  as  spiritual 

*  Compare  the  13th  Letter  in  Time  and  Tide. 


82  SESAME  AND   LILIES. 

food ;  tney  are  only  swollen  with  wind."  At  first  you  ma^ 
think  that  is  a  coarse  type,  and  an  obscure  one.  But  again, 
ij  is  a  quite  literally  accurate  one.  Take  up  your  Latin  and 
Greek  dictionaries,  and  find  out  the  meaning  of  "  Spirit." 
It  is  only  a  contraction  of  the  Latin  word  "  breath,"  and  au 
indistinct  translation  of  the  Greek  word  for  "  wind."  The 
same  word  is  used  in  writing,  "  The  wind  bloweth  where  it 
listeth  ;"  and  in  writing,  "  So  is  every  one  that  is  born  of  the 
Spirit ;"  born  of  the  breathy  that  is  ;  for  it  means  the  breath 
of  God,  in  soul  and  body.  We  have  the  true  sense  of  it  ia 
our  words  "inspiration"  and  "expire."  Now,  there  are  two 
kinds  of  breath  with  which  the  flock  may  be  filled ;  God's 
breath,  and  man's.  The  breath  of  God  is  health,  and  life, 
and  peace  to  them,  as  the  air  of  heaven  is  to  the  flocks  on 
the  hills;  but  man's  breath — the  word  which  he  calls 
spiritual, — is  disease  and  contagion  to  them,  as  the  fog  of  the 
fen.  They  rot  inwardly  with  it ;  they  are  puf'^d  up  by  it,  ah 
a  dead  body  by  the  vapours  of  its  own  decom^  osition.  This 
iri  literally  true  of  all  false  religious  teaching ;  the  first,  and 
last,  and  fatalest  sign  of  it  is  that  "  pufiing  up."'  Your  con- 
verted children,  who  teach  their  parents ;  yo'^^-  converted 
convicts,  who  teach  honest  men ;  your  convened  dunces 
who,  havhig  lived  in  cretinous  stupefaction  half  iheir  lives, 
suddenly  awaking  to  the  fact  of  there  being  a  God,  fancy 
themselves  therefore  His   peculiar  people  and  messengers; 


OF   KINGS    TREASURIES.  33 

your  sectariaus  of  every  species,  small  and  great,  Catholic  oi 
Protestant,  of  high  church  or  low,  in  so  far  as  they  think 
themselves  exclusi\  ely  in  the  light  and  others  wrong ;  and 
pre-eminently,  in  every  sect,  those  who  hold  that  men  can  bi 
f  aved  by  thinking  rightly  instead  of  doing  rightly,  by  word 
iiastead  of  act,  and  wish  instead  of  work : — these  are  the  true 
fog  children — clouds,  these,  without  water;  bodies,  these, 
of  putrescent  vapour  and  skin,  without  blood  or  flesh  :  blown 
bag-pipes  for  the  fiends  to  pipe  with — corrupt,  and  corrupt- 
ing,— "  Swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw." 

Lastly,  let  us  return  to  the  lines  respecting  the  power  of 
the  keys,  for  now  we  can  understand  them.  Note  the  differ' 
ence  between  Milton  and  Dante  in  their  interpretation  of  this 
power:  for  once,  the  latter  is  weaker  in  thought;  he  sup- 
poses both  the  keys  to  be  of  the  gate  of  heaven ;  one  is  of 
gold,  the  other  of  silver  :  they  are  given  by  St,  Peter  to  the 
sentinel  angel ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  determine  the  meaning 
either  of  the  substances  of  the  three  steps  of  the  gate,  or  of 
the  two  keys.  But  Milton  makes  one,  of  gold,  the  key  of 
heaven  ;  the  other,  of  iron,  the  key  of  the  prison,  in  which 
(he  wicked  teachers  are  to  be  bound  who  "have  taken  away 
the  key  of  knowledge,  yet  entered  not  in  themselves." 

AVe  have  seen  that  the  duties  of  bishop  and  pastor  are  to 

gee,  and  feed ;  and,  of  all  who  do  so,  it  is  said,  "  He  that 

watereth,  shall  be  watered  also  himself."    But  the  reverse  ii 

2* 


34  SESAME  AND   LILIES. 

truth  also.  He  that  watereth  not,  shall  be  withered  himself, 
and  he  that  seeth  not,  shall  himself  be  shut  out  of  sight,— 
Bhut  into  the  perpetual  prison-house.  And  that  j^rison  opens 
here,  as  well  as  hereafter:  he  who  is  to  be  bound  in  heaven 
must  first  be  bound  on  earth.  That  command  to  the  strong 
.  angels,  of  which  the  rock-apostle  is  the  image,  "  Take  him, 
and  bind  him  hand  and  foot,  and  cast  him  out,"  issues,  in  its 
measure,  against  the  teacher,  for  every  help  withheld,  and  for 
every  truth  refused,  and  for  every  falsehood  enforced  ;  so 
that  he  is  more  strictly  fettered  the  more  he  fetters,  and 
farther  outcast,  as  he  more  and  more  misleads,  till  at  last  the 
bars  of  the  iron  cage  close  upon  him,  and  as  "  the  golden 
opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain." 

We  have  got  something  out  of  the  lines,  I  think,  and  much 
more  is  yet  to  be  found  in  them  ;  but  we  have  done  enough 
by  way  of  example  of  the  kind  of  word-by-vvord  examina- 
tion of  your  author  which  is  rightly  called  *' reading;" 
watching  every  accent  and  expression,  and  putting  ourselves 
always  in  the  author's  place,  annihilating  our  own  person- 
ality, and  seeking  to  enter  into  his,  so  as  to  be  able  assuredly 
"  to  say,  "Thus  Milton  thought,"  not  *'Thus  I  thought,  in 
mis-reading  Milton."  And  by  this  process  you  will  gradually 
come  to  attach  less  weight  to  your  own  "  Thus  I  thought"  at 
other  times.  You  will  begin  to  perceive  that  what  you 
thought  was  a  matter  of  no  serious  importance  j — that  your 


OF   kings'    TREASUIilES.  35 

tbouglits  on  any  subject  are  not  perhaps  the  clearest  and 
wisest  that  could  be  arrived  at  thereupon : — in  fact,  that 
unless  you  are  a  very  singular  person,  you  cannot  be  said  to 
have  any  "thoughts"  at  all  ;  that  you  have  no  materials  for 
tbem,  in  any  serious  matters;* — no  right  to  "tbink,"  but  only 
to  try  to  learn  more  of  tbe  facts.  Nay,  most  probably  all 
your  Hfe  (unless,  as  I  said,  you  are  a  singular  person)  you 
will  have  no  legitimate  right  to  an  "  opinion"  on  any  busi- 
ness, except  tliat  instantly  under  your  hand.  "What  must  ol 
necessity  be  done,  you  can  always  find  out,  beyond  question, 
how  to  do.  Have  you  a  house  to  keep  in  order,  a  commo- 
dity to  sell,  a  field  to  plough,  a  ditch  to  cleanse?  There 
need  be  no  two  opinions  about  these  proceedings ;  it  is  at 
your  peril  if  you  have  not  much  more  than  an  "  opinion"  on 
the  way  to  manage  such  matters.  And  also,  outside  of  your 
own  business,  there  are  one  or  two  subjects  on  which  you 
are  bound  to  have  but  one  opinion.  That  roguery  and  lying 
are  objectionable,  and  are  instantly  to  be  flogged  out  of  the 
way  whenever  discovered ; — that  co\'etousness  and  love  of 
quarrelling  are  dangerous  dispositions  even  in  children,  and 
deadly  dispositions  in-  men  and  nations  ; — that  in  the  end,  tho 
God  of  heaven  and  earth  loves  active,  modest,  and  kind 
people,  and  hates  idle,  proud,  greedy,  and  cruel  ones ; — on 
these  general  facts  you  are  bound  to  have  but  one,  and  that 
a  very  slrong,  opinion.     For  the   rest,  respecting  religions, 

*  Modem  "Education"  for  the  most  part  signifies  giving-  people  the 
facility  of  thinking  wrong  on  every  conceivable  subject  of  importance 
to  them. 


S6  SESAME  AXD  LILIES. 

governments,  sciences,  arts,  you  will  find  that,  on  the  whole, 
you  can  know  nothing, — judge  nothing ;  that  the  best  you 
can  do,  even  though  you  may  be  a  well-educated  person,  i? 
to  be  silent,  and  strive  to  be  wiser  every  day,  and  to  under 
stand  a  little  more  of  the  thoughts  of  others,  which  so  soon 
as  you  try  to  do  honestly,  you  will  discover  that  the 
thoughts  even  of  the  wisest  are  very  little  more  than  perti- 
nent questions.  To  put  the  difficulty  into  a  clear  shape,  and 
exhibit  to  you  the  grounds  for  i^jdecision,  that  is  all  they  can 
generally  do  for  you! — and  well  for  them  and  for  us,  if 
indeed  they  are  able  "  to  mix  the  music  with  our  thoughts, 
and  sadden  us  with  heavenly  doubts."  This  writer,  from 
whom  I  have  been  reading  to  you,  is  not  among  the  first  or 
wisest :  he  sees  shrewdly  as  far  as  he  sees,  and  therefore  it  is 
easy  to  find  out  his  full  meaning,  but  with  the  greater  men, 
you  cannot  fathom  their  meaning ;  they  do  not  even  wholly 
measure  it  themselves, — it  is  so  wide.  Suppose  I  had  asked 
you,  for  instance,  to  seek  for  Shakespeare's  opinion,  instead 
of  Milton's,  on  this  matter  of  Church  authority  ? — or  for 
Dante's  ?  Have  any  of  you,  at  this  instant,  the  least  idea 
what  either  thought  about  it  ?  Have  you  ever  balanced  the 
jcc'Te  with  the  bishops  in  Richard  IH.  against  the  character 
of  Cranmer?  the  description  of  St.  Francis  and  St.  Dominic 
against  that  of  him  who  made  Viigil  wonder  to  gaze  upon 
him, — "  disteso,  tanto  vilmentc,  nell'  eterno  esilio  j"    or  of 


OP  kings'  treasukies.  87 

him  whom  Dante  stood  beside,  "  come  '1  frate  che  coiifessa 
lo  perfido  assassin  ?  "*  Shakespeare  and  Alighieri  knew  men 
better  than  most  of  us,  I  presume  !  They  were  both  in  the 
midst  of  the  main  struggle  between  the  temporal  and  spiii- 
ual  powers.  They  had  an  opinion,  we  may  guess?  But 
where  is  it?  Bring  it  into  court!  Put  Shakespeare's  or 
Dante's  creed  into  articles,  and  sevid  that  up  into  the  Eccle- 
siastical Courts  ! 

You  will  not  be  able,  I  tell  you  again,  for  many  and 
many  a  day,  to  come  at  the  real  purposes  and  teaching 
of  these  great  men  ;  but  a  very  little  honest  study  of  them 
will  enable  you  to  perceive  that  what  you  took  for  your  own 
"judgment"  was  mere  chance  prejudice,  and  drifted,  help- 
less, entangled  weed  of  castaway  thought :  nay,  you  will  see 
that  most  men's  minds  are  indeed  little  better  than  rough 
heath  wilderness,  neglected  and  stubborn,  partly  barren, 
partly  overgrown  with  pestilent  brakes  and  venomous  wind- 
sown  herbage  of  evil  surmise ;  that  the  first  thing  you  have 
to  do  for  them,  and  yourself,  is  eagerly  and  scorafully  to  set 
fire  to  this ;  burn  all  the  jungle  into  wholesome  ash  heaps, 
and  then  plough  and  sow.  All  the  true  literary  work  b<?fore 
you,  for  life,  must  begin  with  obedience  to  that  ord»»r, 
Bre!.k  up  your  fallow  ground,  and  sow  not  among  thoma,^^ 
II.  Having  then  faithfully  listened  to  the  great  teachers, 
♦  Inf.  xix.  71;  X2iii..n7. 


38  SESAME    ^ND  LILIES. 

that  you  may  enter  into  their  Thoughts,  you  have  yet  this 
higher  advance  to  make; — you  have  to  enter  into  their 
Hearts.  As  you  go  to  them  first  for  clear  sight,  so  you  must 
stay  with  them  that  you  may  share  at  last  their  just  and 
mighty  Passion.  Passion,  or  "  sensation."  I  am  not  afraid 
of  the  word  ;  still  less  of  the  thing.  You  have  heard  many 
outcries  against  sensation  lately;  hut,  I  can  tell  you,  it  is 
not  less  sensation  we  want,  but  more.  The  ennobling  dif- 
ference between  one  man  and  another, — ^between  one  animal 
and  another, — is  pi-ecisely  in  this,  that  one  feels  more  than 
another.  If  we  were  sponges,  perhaps  sensation  might  not 
be  easily  got  for  us ;  if  we  were  earth-worms,  liable  at  every 
instant  to  be  cut  in  two  by  the  spade,  perhaps  too  much 
sensation  might  not  be  good  for  us.  But,  being  human  crea- 
tuies,  it  is  good  for  us ;  nay,  we  are  only  human  in  so  far  as 
we  are  sensitive,  and  our  honour  is  precisely  in  proportion 
to  our  passion. 

You  know  I  said  of  that  great  and  pure  society  of  the 
dead,  that  it  would  allow  "no  vain  or  vulgar  person  to  entei 
there."  What  do  you  think  I  meant  by  a  "  vulgar"  person  ? 
What  do  you  yourselves  mean  by  "  vulgarity  ?"  You  will 
find  it  a  fruitful  subject  of  thought;  but,  briefly,  the  essence 
of  all  vulgarity  lies  in  want  of  sensation.  Simple  and  inno 
cent  vulgarity  is  merely  an  untrained  and  undeveloped  blunU 
ness  of  body  and  mind ;  but  in  true  inbred  vulgarity,  thcrtj 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  39 

is  a  deathful  callousness,  which,  in  extremity,  becomes  capa- 
ble  of  every  sort  of  bestial  habit  and  crime,  without  fear, 
without  pleasure,  without  horror,  and  without  pity.  It  i? 
in  the  blunt  hand  and  the  dead  heart,  in  the  diseased  habit, 
in  the  hardened  conscience,  that  men  become  vulgar;  the)! 
are  for  ever  vulgar,  precisely  in  proportion  as  they  are 
incapable  of  sympathy, — of  quick  understanding,— of  all 
that,  in  deep  insistance  on  the  common,  but  most  accurate 
term,  may  be  called  the  "tact"  or  touch-faculty  of  body  and 
soul :  that  tact  which  the  Mimosa  has  in  trees,  which  the 
pure  woman  has  above  all  creatures; — fineness  and  fulness 
of  sensation,  beyond  reason  ; — the  guide  and  sanctifier  of 
reason  itself.  Reason  can  but  determine  what  is  true : — it 
is  the  God-given  passion  of  humanity  which  alone  can  recog- 
nise what  God  has  made  good. 

We  come  then  to  that  great  concourse  of  the  Dead,  not 
merely  to  know  from  them  what  is  True,  but  chiefly  to  feel 
with  them  what  is  Righteous.  Now,  to  feel  with  them,  we 
must  be  like  them  ;  and  none  of  us  can  become  that  without 
pains.  As  the  true  knowledge  is  disciplined  and  tested  know- 
ledge,— not  the  first  thought  that  comes, — so  the  true  pnssioi 
is  disciplined  and  tested  passion — not  the  first  passion  thnt 
jonies.  The  first  that  come  are  the  vain,  the  false,  the  treache 
rous ;  if  you  yield  to  them  they  will  lead  you  wildly  and  fai 
in  vain  pursuit,  in  hollow  enthusiasm,  till  you  have  no  true 


40  SESAME  AND  LILISS. 

purpose  and  no  true  passion  left.  "Not  that  any  feeling  pes- 
sible  to  humanity  is  in  itself  wrong,  but  only  wrong  when 
undisciplined.  Its  nobility  is  in  its  force  and  justice;  it  is 
wrong  when  it  is  weak,  and  felt  for  paltry  cause.  There  is 
a  mean  wonder  as  of  a  child  who  sees  a  juggler  tossing 
golden  balls,  and  this  is  base,  if  you  will.  But  do  you  think 
that  the  wonder  is  ignoble,  or  the  sensation  less,  with  which 
every  human  soul  is  called  to  watch  the  golden  balls  of 
heaven  tossed  through  the  night  by  the  Hand  that  made 
them?  There  is  a  mean  curiosity,  as  of  a  child  opening  a 
forbidden  door,  or  a  servant  prying  into  her  master's  busi- 
ness;— and  a  noble  curiosity,  questioning,  in  the  front  of 
danger,  the  source  of  the  great  river  beyond  the  sand — ^the 
place  of  the  great  continents  beyond  the  sea; — a  nobler 
curiosity  still,  which  questions  of  the  source  of  the  River  of 
Life,  and  of  the  space  of  the  Continent  of  Heaven, — things 
which  "the  angels  desire  to  look  into."  So  the  anxiety  is 
ignoble,  with  which  you  linger  over  the  course  and  cata- 
strophe of  an  idle  tale ;  but  do  you  think  the  anxiety  is  less, 
or  greater,  with  which  you  watch,  or  ought  to  watch,  the 
dealings  of  fate  and  destiny  with  the  life  of  an  agonised 
nation  ?  Alas  !  it  is  the  narrowness,  selfishness,  minuteness, 
')f  your  sensation  that  you  have  to  deplore  in  England  at 
this  day; — sensation  which  spends  itself  in  bouquets  and 
•peeches;  in  rcvelliugs  and  junketings;  in  sham  fights  and 


OF  KINGS    TREASURIES.  41 

gay  puppet  shows,  while  ycu  can  look  on  and  see  noble 
nations  murdered,  man  by  man,  woman  by  woman,  child  by 
child,  without  an  effort,  or  a  tear. 

I  said  "minuteness"  and  "selfishness"  of  sensation,  but 
in  a  word,  I  ought  to  have  said  "  injustice  "  or  "  unrighteous- 
ness "  of  sensation.  For  as  in  nothing  is  a  gentleman  better 
to  be  discerned  from  a  vulgar  person,  so  in  nothing  is 
a  gentle  nation  (such  nations  have  been)  better  to  be 
discerned  from  a  mob,  than  in  this, — that  their  feelings 
are  constant  and  just,  results  of  due  contemplation,  and 
of  equal  thought.  You  can  talk  a  mob  into  anything; 
its  feelings  may  be — usually  are — on  the  whole  generous 
and  right ;  but  it  has  no  foundation  for  them,  no  hold 
of  them;  you  may  tease  or  tickle  it  into  any,  at  your 
pleasure  ;  it  thinks  by  infection,  for  the  most  part,  catching 
a  passion  like  a  cold,  and  there  is  nothing  so  little  that  it 
will  not  roar  itself  wild  about,  when  the  fit  is  on ; — 
nothing  so  great  but  it  will  forget  in  an  hour,  when 
the  fit  is  past.  But  a  gentleman's,  or  a  gentle  nation's, 
passions  are  just,  measured,  and  continuous.  A  great 
nation,  for  instance,  does  not  spend  its  entire  national 
wits  for  a  couple  of  months  in  weighing  evidence  of  a 
single  ruffian's  having  done  a  single  murder ;  and  for  a 
couple  of  years,  see  its  own  children  murder  each  other 
by  their  thousands   or  tens  of  thousands  a  day,  consider 


42  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

iug  only  what  the  effect  is  likely  to  be  on  the  price 
of  cotton,  and  caiing  nowise  to  determine  which  sida 
of  battle  is  in  the  wrong.  Neither  does  a  great  natiou 
send  its  poor  little  boys  to  jail  for  stealing  six  walnuts 
and  allow  its  bankrupts  to  steal  their  hundreds  en 
thousands  with  a  bow,  and  its  bankers,  rich  with  poor 
men's  savings,  to  close  their  doors  "  under  circumstancea 
over  which  they  have  no  control,"  with  a  "  by  your  leave ; " 
and  large  landed  estates  to  be  bought  by  men  wlio  have 
made  their  money  by  going  with  armed  steamers  up  and 
down  the  China  Seas,  selling  opium  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
and  altering,  for  the  benefit  of  the  foreign  nation,  the  com- 
mon highwayman's  demand  of  "  your  money  or  your  life," 
into  that  of  "  your  money  and  your  life."  Neither  does  a 
great  nation  allow  the  lives  of  its  innocent  poor  to  be 
parched  out  of  them  by  fog  fever,  and  rotted  out  of  them 
by  dunghill  plague,  for  the  sake  of  sixpence  a  life  extra 
per  week  to  its  landlords  ;*  and  then  debate,  with  drivelling 

*  See  the  evidence  in  the  Medical  officer's  report  to  the  Privy  Council, 
just  published.  There  are  suggestions  in  its  preface  which  will  malce 
some  stir  among  us,  I  fancy,  respecting  which  let  me  note  these  poiula 
ollowing : — 

There  are  two  thecries  on  the  subject  of  land  now  abroad,  and  in  conten 
tion;  both  false. 

The  first  is  that  by  Heavenly  law,  there  have  always  existed,  and  most 


OF   KJNGS'   TREASURIES.  43 

tears,    and    diabolical    sympathies,    whether   it    ought    not 
piously    to    save,   and    nursingly   cherish,   the    lives    of  its 

continue  to  exist,  a  certain  number  of  hereditarily  sacred  persons,  to  whoL 
tlie  earth,  air,  and  watei  of  the  world  belong,  as  personal  property ;  of 
wliich  earth,  air,  and  water  these  persons  may,  at  their  pleasure,  permit,  or 
forbid,  the  rest  of  the  human  race  to  eat,  to  breathe,  or  to  drink.  Thia 
theory  is  not  for  many  years  longer  tenable.  The  adverse  theory  is  that 
a  division  of  the  land  of  the  world  among  the  mob  of  the  world  would 
immediately  elevate  the  said  mob  into  sacred  personages;  that  housea 
would  then  build  themselves,  and  corn  grow  of  itself;  and  that  everybody 
would  be  able  to  live,  without  doing  any  work  for  his  living.  This  theory 
would  also  be  found  highly  untenable  in  practice. 

It  will,  however,  require  some  rough  experiments,  and  rougher  cata- 
strophes, even  in  this  magnesium-lighted  epoch,  before  the  generahty  of 
persons  wiU  be  convinced  that  no  law  concerning  anything,  least  of 
all  concerning  land,  for  either  holding  or  dividing  it,  or  renting  it 
higli,  or  renting  it  low,  would  be  of  the  smallest  ultimate  use  to  tlie 
people,  so  long  as  the  general  contest  for  life,  and  for  the  means  of  Hfe, 
remains  one  of  mere  brutal  competition.  That  contest,  in  an  unprincipled 
nation,  will  take  one  deadly  form  or  another,  whatever  laws  you  make  for 
it.  For  instance,  it  would  be  an  entirely  wholesome  law  for  England,  if  it 
could  be  carried,  that  maximum  limits  should  be  assigned  to  incomes, 
according  to  classes ;  and  that  every  nobleman's  income  should  be  paid  to 
huu  as  a  fixed  sa^ry  or  pension  by  the  nation;  and  not  squeezed  by  him 
in  a  variable  sum,  at  discretion,  out  of  the  tenants  of  liis  land.  But  if  you 
could  get  such  a  law  passed  to-morrow;  and  if,  which  would  be  farther 
necessary,  you  could  fix  the  value  of  the  assig^iod  incomes  by  making  « 


44  SESAME  AKD  LILIES. 

raurdeiers.  Also,  a  great  nation  having  made  up  its  mind 
that    hanging   is    quite    the    wholesomest   process    for    ili 

given  weight  of  pure  wheat-flour  legal  tender  for  a  given  sum,  a  twelve" 
month  would  not  pass  before  another  currency  would  have  been  tudtlj 
established,  and  the  power  of  accumulative  wealth  would  have  re-asserted 
itself  in  some  other  article,  or  some  imaginary  sign.  Forbid  men  to  buy 
each  other's  lives  for  sovereigns,  and  they  will  for  shells,  or  slates.  There 
is  only  one  cure  for  public  distress — and  that  is  public  education,  directed 
to  make  men  thoughtful,  merciful,  and  just  There  are,  indeed,  many  lawH 
conceivable  which  would  gradually  better  and  strengthen  the  national 
temper ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  they  are  such  as  the  national  temper  must 
be  much  bettered  before  it  would  bear.  A  nation  in  its  youth  may  be 
helped  by  laws,  as  a  weak  child  by  backboards,  but  when  it  is  old,  it  cannot 
that  way  straighten  its  crooked  spine. 

And  besides,  the  problem  of  land,  at  its  worst,  is  a  bye  one ;  distribute 
the  earth  as  you  will,  the  principal  question  remains  inexorable, — Who  ia 
to  dig  it?  Which  of  us,  in  brief  words,  is  to  do  the  hard  and  dirty  work 
for  the  rest — and  for  what  pay?  Who  is  to  do  the  pleasant  and  dean 
work,  and  for  what  pay  ?  Who  is  to  do  no  work,  and  for  what  pay?  And 
there  are  curious  moral  and  religious  questions  connected  with  these.  How 
far  is  it  lawful  to  suck  a  portion  of  the  soul  out  of  a  great  many  persons, 
In  order  to  put  the  abstracted  psychical  quantities  together,  and  make  one 
ery  beautiful  or  ideal  soul  ?  If  we  had  to  deal  with  mere  blood,  instead 
of  spirit,  and  the  thing  might  literally  be  done  (as  it  has  been  done  with 
lufants  before  now)  so  that  it  were  possible,  by  taking  a  certain  quantity  of 
blood  from  the  arms  of  a  given  number  of  the  mob,  and  putting  it  all  into 
one  person,  to  make  a  more  azure-blooded  gentleman  of  him,  the  thing 


45 

homicides  in  general,  can  yet  with  mercy  distinguish 
between  the  degrees  of  guilt  in  homicides;  and  does  not 
yelp  like  a  pack  of  frost-pinched  wolf-cubs  on  the  blood 
track  of  an  unhappy  crazed  boy,  or  grey-haired  clodpati 
Othello,  "  perplexed  i'  the  extreme,"  at  the  very  moment 
that  it  is  sending  a  Minister  of  the  Crown  to  make  polite 
speeches  to  a  man  who  is  bayoneting  young  girls  in  their 
father's  sight,  and  killing  noble  youths  in  cool  blood,  faster 
than  a  country  butcher  kills  lambs  in  spring.  And,  lastly, 
a  great  nation  does  not  mock  Heaven  and  its  Powers,  by 

would  of  course  be  managed ;  but  secretly,  I  should  conceiye.  But  now, 
because  it  is  brain  and  soul  that  we  abstract,  not  visible  blood,  it  can  be 
done  quite  openly ;  and  we  live,  we  gentlemen,  on  delicatest  prey,  after  the 
manner  of  weasels ;  that  is  to  say,  we  keep  a  certain  number  of  clowns  dig- 
ging and  ditching,  and  generally  stupijfied,  in  order  that  we,  being  fed 
gratis,  may  have  all  the  thinking  and  feeling  to  ourselves.  Yet  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  said  for  this.  A  highly-bred  and  trained  English,  French, 
Austrian,  or  Italian  gentleman  (much  more  a  lady)  is  a  great  production ;  a 
better  production  than  most  statues ;  being  beautifully  coloured  as  well  aa 
Bhaped,  and  plus  all  the  brains ;  a  glorious  thing  to  look  at,  a  wonderful 
thing  to  talk  to ;  and  you  cannot  have  it,  any  more  than  a  pyramid  or  a 
church,  but  by  sacrifice  of  much  contributed  life.  And  it  is,  perhaps, 
better  to  build  a  beautiful  human  creature  than  a  beautiful  dome  or  steeple 
and  more  delightful  to  look  up  reverently  to  a  creature  far  above  us,  than 
ko  a  wall ;  only  the  beautiful  human  creature  will  have  some  duties  to  d« 
in  return — duties  of  living  belfry  and  rampart — of  which  presently. 


16  SESAME  AND   LILIES. 

pretending  belief  in  a  revelation  which  asserts  the  love 
of  money  to  be  the  root  of  all  evil,  and  declaring,  at 
the  same  time,  that  it  is  actuated,  and  intends-  to  bo 
actuated,  in  all  chief  national  deeds  and  measures,  by 
no  otlier  love. 

My  friends,  I  do  not  know  why  any  of  us  should  talk 
about  reading.  We  want  some  sharper  discipline  than  that 
of  reading ;  but,  at  all  events,  be  assured,  we  cannot  read. 
No  reading  is  possible  for  a  people  with  its  mind  in  this 
state.  No  sentence  of  any  great  writer  is  intelligible  to 
them.  It  is  simply  and  sternly  impossible  for  the  English 
public,  at  this  moment,  to  understand  any  tlioughtful  writing, 
— so  incapable  of  thought  has  it  become  in  its  insanity  of 
avarice.  Happily,  our  disease  is,  as  yet,  little  worse  than 
this  incapacity  of  thought ;  it  is  not  corruption  of  the  inner 
nature ;  we  ring  true  still,  when  anytlrmg  strikes  home  to 
us  ;  and  though  the  idea  that  everything  should  "  pay  "  Kaa 
infected  our  every  purpose  so  deeply,  that  even  when  we 
would  play  the  good  Samaritan,  we  never  take  out  our  two- 
pence and  give  them  to  the  host,  without  saying,  "  When  I 
come  again,  thou  shalt  give  me  fourpence,"  there  is  a  capa- 
city of  noble  passion  left  in  our  hearts'  core.  We  show  it  in 
our  work — in  our  war, — even  in  those  unjust  domestic  affeo* 
tions  which  make  us  furious  at  a  small  private  wrong,  while 
we  are  polite  to  a  boundless  public  one :  we  are  still  iudus 


47 

tiious  to  the  last  hour  of  the  day,  though  we  add  the  gam- 
bler's fury  to  the  labourer's  patience ;  we  are  still  brave  to 
the  death,  though  incapable  of  discerning  true  cause  for  bat- 
tle, and  are  still  true  in  affection  to  our  own  flesh,  to  the 
death,  as  the  sea-monsters  are,  and  the  rock-eagles.  And 
there  is  hope  for  a  nation  while  this  can  be  still  said  of  it. 
As  long  as  it  hold?  its  life  in  its  hand,  ready  to  give  it  for  its 
honour  (though  a  foolish  honour),  for  its  love  (though  a  sel- 
fish love),  and  for  its  business  (though  a  base  business),  there 
is  hope  for  it.  But  hope  only ;  for  this  instinctive,  reckless 
virtue  cannot  last.  No  nation  can  last,  which  has  made  a 
mob  of  itself,  however  generous  at  heart.  It  must  discipline 
its  passions,  and  direct  them,  or  they  will  discipline  it,  one 
day,  with  scorpion  whips.  Above  all,  a  nation  cannot  last  as 
a  money-making  mob :  it  cannot  with  impunity, — it  cannot 
with  existence, — go  on  despising  literature,  despising  science, 
despising  art,  despising  nature,  despising  compassion,  and 
concentrating  its  soul  on  Pence.  Do  you  think  these 
are  harsh  or  wild  words  ?  Have  patience  with  me  but  a 
little  longer.  I  will  prove  their  truth  to  you,  clause  by 
clause. 

I.  I  say  first  we  have  despised  literature.  What  do  we,  ns 
a  nation,  care  about  books  ?  How  much  do  you  think  wo 
spend  altogether  on  our  libraries,  public  or  private,  as  com- 
pared with  what  we  spend  on  our  horses  ?     If  a  man  spend* 


'48  sesame  and  lilies. 

lavishly  on  his  library,  you  call  him  raad — a  bibliomaniaa 
But  you  never  call  any  one  a  horse-maniac,  though  men  ruin 
themselves  every  day  by  their  horses,  and  you  do  not  hear 
of  people  ruining  themselves  by  their  books.  Or,  to  go  lower 
fltill,  how  much  do  you  think  the  contents  of  the  book-shelvea 
of  the  United  Kingdom,  public  and  private,  would  fetch,  as 
compared  with  the  contents  of  its  wine-cellars  ?  What  posi- 
tion would  its  expenditure  on  literature  take,  as  compared 
with  its  expenditure  on  luxurious  eating  ?  We  talk  of  food 
for  the  mind,  as  of  food  for  the  body :  now  a  good  book  con 
tains  such  food  inexhaustibly ;  it  is  a  provision  for  life,  and 
for  the  best  part  of  us ;  yet  how  long  most  people  would  look 
at  the  best  book  before  they  would  give  the  price  of  a  large 
turbot  for  it !  Though  there  have  been  men  who  have 
pinched  their  stomachs  and  bared  their  backs  to  buy  a  book, 
whose  libraries  were  cheaper  to  them,  I  think,  in  the  end, 
than  most  men's  dinners  are.  We  are  few  of  us  put  to  such 
trial,  and  more  the  pity ;  for,  indeed,  a  precious  thing  is  all 
the  more  precious  to  us  if  it  has  been  won  by  work  or 
economy ;  and  if  public  libraries  were  half  as  costly  as  pub- 
lic dinners,  or  books  cost  the  tenth  part  of  what  bracelets 
do,  even  foolish  men  and  women  might  sometimes  suspect 
there  was  good  in  reading,  as  well  as  in  munching  and  spark- 
ling ;  whereas  the  very  cheapness  of  literature  is  making 
even  wise  people  forget  that  if  a  book  is  worth  reading,  it  if 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  49 

worth  bnying.  No  book  is  worth  anything  which  is  not 
worth  much  ;  nor  is  it  serviceable,  until  it  has  been  read,  and 
reread,  and  loved,  and  loved  again ;  and  marked,  so  that  you 
can  refer  to  the  passages  you  want  in  it,  as  a  soldier  can 
seize  the  weapon  he  needs  in  an  armoury,  or  a  housewife 
bring  the  spice  she  needs  from  her  store.  Bread  of  flour  is 
good  ;  but  there  is  bread,  sweet  as  honey,  if  we  would  eat  it, 
in  a  good  book  ;  and  the  family  must  be  poor  indeed  which, 
once  in  their  lives,  cannot,  for  such  multipliable  barley-loaves, 
pay  their  baker's  bill.  We  call  ourselves  a  rich  nation,  and 
we  are  filthy  and  foolish  enough  to  thumb  each  other's  books 
out  of  circulating  libraries ! 

II.  I  say  we  have  despised  science.  "  What !"  (you  ex- 
claim) "  are  we  not  foremost  in  all  discovery,  and  is  not  the 
whole  world  giddy  by  reason,  or  unreason,  of  our  inven- 
tions?" Yes;  but  do  you  suppose  that  is  national  work? 
That  work  is  all  done  in  spite  of  the  nation ;  by  private 
people's  zeal  and  money.  We  are  glad  enough,  indeed,  to 
make  our  profit  of  science ;  we  snap  up  anything  in  the  way 
of  a  scientific  bone  that  has  meat  on  it,  eagerly  enough  ;  but 
if  the  scientific  man  comes  for  a  bone  or  a  crust  to  ws,  that 
is  another  story.  What  have  we  publicly  done  for  science? 
We  are  obliged  to  know  what  o'clock  it  is,  for  the  safety  of 
our  ships,  and  therefore  we  pay  for  an  observatory ;  and  wo 
allow  ourselves,  in  the  person  of  our  Parliament,  to  be  aimu 


60  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

ally  tormented  into  doing  something,  in  a  slovenly  way, 
for  t ho  British  Museum;  sullenly  apprehending  that  to  be  a 
place  for  keeping  stuffed  birds  in,  to  amuse  our  children  li' 
anybody  will  pay  for  their  ovvm  telescope,  and  resolve  ano 
ther  nebula,  we  cackle  over  the  discernment  as  if  it  were  our 
own ;  if  one  in  ten  thousand  of  our  hunting  squires  suddenly 
perceives  that  the  earth  was  indeed  made  to  be  something 
else  than  a  portion  for  foxes,  and  burrows  in  it  himself,  and 
tells  us  w^here  the  gold  is,  and  where  the  coals,  we  understand 
that  there  is  some  use  in  that;  and  very  properly  knight  him: 
but  is  the  accident  of  his  having  found  out  how  to  employ 
himself  usefully  any  credit  to  'tis?  (The  negation  of  such 
discovery  among  his  brother  squires  may  perhaps  be  some 
discradit  to  us,  if  we  would  consider  of  it.)  But  if  you  doubt 
these  generalities,  here  is  one  fact  for  us  all  to  meditate  upon, 
illustrative  of  our  love  of  science.  Two  years  ago  there  was 
a  collection  of  the  fossils  of  Solenhofen  to  be  sold  in  Bavaria; 
the  best  in  existence,  containing  many  specimens  unique  for 
perfectness,  and  one,  unique  as  an  example  of  a  species  (a 
whole  kingdom  of  unknown  living  creatures  being  announced 
by  that  fossil).  This  collection,  of  which  the  mere  market 
worth,  among  private  buyers,  would  probably  have  been 
Rome  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  pounds,  was  offered  to  the 
BInglish  nation  for  seven  hundred:  but  we  woukl  not  give 
•even  hundred,  and  the  whole  series  would  have  been  in  the 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  61 

Mimicli  museum  at  this  moment,  if  Professor  Owen**  bad  not, 
vvith  loss  of  his  own  time,  and  patient  tormenting  of  the  Bn« 
tish  public  in  person  of  its  representatives,  got  leave  to  give 
four  hundred  pounds  at  once,  and  himself  become  answer* 
able  for  the  other  three!  which  the  said  public  will  doubtless 
pay  him  eventually,  but  sulkily,  and  caring  nothing  about 
the  matter  all  the  while;  only  always  ready  to  cackle  if  any 
credit  comes  of  it.  Consider,  I  beg  of  you,  arithmetically, 
what  this  fact  means.  Your  annual  expenditure  for  public 
purposes  (a  third  of  it  for  military  apparatus)  is  at  least  50 
millions.  "Now  lOOl.  is  to  50,000,000^.  roughly,  as  seven 
pence  to  two  thousand  pounds.  Suppose  then,  a  gentleman 
of  unknown  income,  but  whose  wealth  was  to  be  conjectured 
from  the  fact  that  he  spent  two  thousand  a  year  on  his  park- 
walls  and  footmen  only,  professes  himself  fond  of  science ; 
and  that  one  of  his  servants  comes  eagerly  to  tell  him  that 
an  unique  collection  of  fossils,  giving  clue  to  a  new  era  of 
creation,  is  to  be  had  for  the  sum  of  seven  pence  sterling ; 
and  that  the  gentleman,  who  is  fond  of  science,  and  spends 
two  thousand  a  year  on  his  park,  answers,  after  keeping  hia 
gervant  waiting  several  months,  "Well!   I'll  give  you  four 

*  I  state  this  fact  without  Professor  Owen's  permission:  which  of  course 
he  co^ild  not  with  propriety  have  granted,  had  I  asked  it ;  but  I  considoP 
It  so  important  that  the  public  should  be  aware  of  the  fact,  that  I  do  what 
Heems  to  n«e  right,  though  rude. 


52  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

pence  for  them,  if  you  will  be  answerable  for  the  extra  three 
pence  yourself,  till  next  year !" 

III.  I  say  you  have  despised  Art !  "  What !"  you  again 
answer,  "  have  we  not  Art  exhibitions,  miles  long?  and  do  we 
not  pay  thousands  of  pounds  for  single  pictures?  and  have 
we  not  Art  schools  and  institutions,  more  than  ever  nation 
had  before  ?"  Yes,  truly,  but  all  that  is  for  the  sake  of  the 
shop.  You  would  fain  sell  canvas  as  well  as  coals,  and  crock- 
ery as  well  as  iron ;  you  would  take  every  other  nation's 
bread  out  of  its  mouth  if  you  could;*  not  being  able  to  do 
that,  your  ideal  of  life  is  to  stand  in  the  thoroughfares  of  the 
world,  like  Ludgate  apprentices,  screaming  to  every  passer- 
by, "What  d'ye  lack?"  You  know  nothing  of  your  owd 
faculties  or  circumstances;  you  fancy  that,  among  your  damp, 
flat,  fat  fields  of  clay,  you  can  have  as  quick  art-fancy  as  the 
Frenchman  among  his  bronzed  vines,  or  the  Italian  under  his 
volcanic  cliffs ; — that  Art  may  be  leai*ned  as  book-keeping  is, 
and  when  learned,  will  give  you  more  books  to  keep.  You 
care  for  pictures,  absolutely,  no  more  than  you  do  for  the 
bills  pasted  on  your  dead  walls.  There  is  always  room  on 
tlie  wall  for  the  bills  to  be  read, — never  for  the  pictures  to 
be  seen.  You  do  not  know  what  pictures  you  have  (by 
repute)  in  the  country,  nor  whether  they  are  false  or  true, 
nor  whether  they  are  taken  care  of  or  not ;  in  foreign  conn* 
tries,  you  calmly  see  the  noblest  existing  pictures  in  the 

♦That  waa  our  real  idea  of  "Free  Trade' — "All  the  trade  to 
myself."  You  find  now  that  by  "competition"  other  people  caa 
manage  to  sell  something  as  well  as  you — and  now  we  call  for  Proteo 
tion  again.     Wretches  1 


OF   KINGS'  TREASURIES.  53 

world  rotting  in  abandoned  wreck — (and,  in  Venice,  with  the 
Austrian  guns  deliberately  pointed  at  the  palaces  containing 
them),  and  if  you  heard  that  all  the  Titians  in  Europe  were 
made  sand-bags  to-morrow  on  the  Austrian  forts,  it  would 
ot  trouble  you  so  much  as  the  chance  of  a  brace  or  tw-^o  of 
game  less  in  your  own  bags  in  a  day's  shooting.  That  ii 
your  national  love  of  Art. 

IV.  You  have  despised  nature ;  that  is  to  say,  all  the  deep 
and  sacred  sensations  of  natural  scenery.  The  French  revo- 
lutionists made  stables  of  the  cathedrals  of  France ;  you  have 
made  racecourses  of  the  cathedrals  of  the  earth.  Your  one 
conception  of  pleasure  is  to  drive  in  railroad  carriages  round 
their  aisles,  and  eat  off  their  altars.*  You  have  put  a  railroad 
bridge  over  the  fall  of  Schaffhausen.  You  have  tunnelled 
the  cliffs  of  Lucerne  by  Toll's  chapel ;  you  have  destroyed 
the  Olarens  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva ;  there  is  not  a  quiet 
valley  in  England  that  you  have  not  filled  with  bellowing 
fire ;  there  is  no  particle  left  of  English  land  which  you  have 
not  trampled  coal  ashes  into — nor  any  foreign  city  in  which 
the  spread  of  your  presence  is  not  marked  among  its  fair  old 
Streets  and  happy  gardens  by  a  consuming  white  leprosy  of 
new  hotels  and  perfumers'  shops:  the  Alps  themselves,  which 
your  own  poets  used  to  love  so  reverently,  you  look  upon  as 
soaped  poles  in  a  bear-garden,  which  you  set  yourselves  to 
climb,   and   slide    down   again,  with  "shrieks   of  delight." 

*  1  meant  that  the  beautiful  places  of  the  world — Switzerland,  Italy, 
Bouth  Germany,  and  so  on — are,  indeed,  the  truest  cathedrals— places 
to  be  reverent  in,  and  to  worship  in;  and  that  we  only  care  to  driy« 
through  tiheu  :  and  to  eat  and  drink  at  their  most  sacred  places. 


64  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

When  you  are  past  shrieking,  having  no  l*  iman  articulate 
voice  to  say  you  are  glad  with,  you  fill  the  quietude  of  the:r 
valleys  with  gunpowder  blasts,  and  rush  home,  red  with 
cutaneous  eruption  of  conceit,  and  voluble  with  convulsive 
hiccough  of  self-satisfaction.  I  think  nearly  the  two  sorrow- 
fullest  spectacles  I  have  ever  seen  in  humanity,  taking  the 
deep  inner  significance  of  thera,  are  the  English  mobs  in  the 
valley  of  Chamouni,  amusing  themselves  with  firing  rusty 
howitzers ;  and  the  Swiss  vintagers  of  Zurich  expressing 
their  Christian  thanks  for  the  gift  of  the  vine,  by  assembling 
in  knots  in  the  "towers  of  the  vineyards,"  and  slowly 
loading  and  firing  horse-pistols  from  morning  till  evening. 
It  is  pitiful  to  have  dim  conceptions  of  duty ;  more 
pitiful,  it  seems  to  me,  to  have  conceptions  like  these,  of 
mirth. 

Lastly.  You  despise  compassion.  There  is  no  need  of 
words  of  mine  for  proof  of  this.  I  will  merely  print  one  of 
the  newspaper  paragraphs  which  I  am  in  the  habit  of  cutting 
out  and  throwing  into  my  store-drawer ;  here  is  one  from  a 
Daily  Telegraph  of  an  early  date  this  year;  date  which 
though  by  me  carelessly  left  unmarked,  is  easily  discoverable 
for  on  the  back  of  the  slip,  there  is  the  announcement  that 
"yesterday  the  seventh  of  the  special  services  of  this  year 
was  performed  by  the  Bishop  of  Ripon  in  St.  Paul's ; "  and 
there  is  a  pretty  piece  of  modern  political  economy  besides, 

^  lr\  a     'WV  fj      ^v  I 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  65 

worth  preserving  note  of,  I  think,  so  I  print  it  in  the  note 
below.*  But  my  business  is  with  the  main  2:)aragrriph,  relat. 
ing  one  of  such  facts  as  happen  now  daily,  which,  by  chance, 
has  taken  a  form  in  which  it  came  before  the  coroner.  I 
will  print  the  paragraph  in  red.f  Be  sure,  the  facts  them- 
selves are  written  in  that  colour,  in  a  book  which  we  shall  all 
of  us,  literate  or  illiterate,  have  to  read  our  page  of,  some 
day. 

"  An  inquiry  was  held  on  Friday  by  Mr.  Richards,  deputy 
coroner,  at  the  White  Horse  Tavern,  Christ  Church,  Spital- 
fields,  respecting  the  death  of  Michael  Collins,  aged  58  years. 
Mary  Collins,  a  miserable-looking  woman,  said  that  she  lived 
with  the  deceased  and  his  son  in  a  room  at  2,  Cobb's  court, 
Christ  Church.  Deceased  was  a  'translator'  of  boots. 
Witness  went  out  and  bought  old  boots;  deceased  and  hia 
son  made  them  into  good  ones,  and  then  witness  sold  thera 

*  It  is  announced  that  an  arrangement  has  been  concluded  between 
the  Ministry  of  Finance  and  the  Bank  of  Credit  for  the  payment  of  the 
eleven  millions  which  the  State  has  to  pay  to  the  National  Bank  by  the  14th 
hist.  This  sum  will  be  raised  as  follows : — The  eleven  commercial  members 
of  the  committee  of  the  Bank  of  Credit  will  each  borrow  a  million  of  florins 
for  three  months  of  this  bank,  which  wiU  accept  their  biUs,  which  again 
ydU  be  discounted  by  the  National  Bank.  By  this  arrangement  the  Nationai 
Rmk  will  itself  furnish  tJie  funds  with  which  it  will  be  paid. 

f  Tlie  following  extract  was  piinted  in  red  in  the  English  edition. 


56  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

for  what  she  could  get  at  the  shops,  which  was  very  little 
indeed.  Deceased  and  his  son  used  to  work  night  and  day  to 
try  and  get  a  little  bread  and  tea,  and  pay  for  the  room 
(is.  a  week),  so  as  to  keep  the  home  together.  On  Friday 
night  week  deceased  got  up  from  his  bench  and  began  to 
shiver.  He  threw  down  the  boots,  saying,  *  Somebody  else 
must  finish  them  when  I  am  gone,  for  I  can  do  no  more.' 
There  was  no  fire,  and  he  said,  '  I  would  be  better  if  I  was 
warm.'  Witness  therefore  took  two  pairs  of  translated 
boots*  to  sell  at  the  shop,  but  she  could  only  get  I4:d.  for 
the  two  pairs,  for  the  people  at  the  shop  said,  '  We  must 
have  our  profit.'  Witness  got  14lb.  of  coal,  and  a  little 
tea  and  bread.     Her  son  sat  up  the  whole  night  to  make  the 

*  translations,'  to  get  money,  but  deceased  died  on  Saturday 
morning.     The  family  never  had  enough  to  eat. — Coroner: 

*  It  seems  to  me  deplorable  that  you  did  not  go  into  the 

workhouse.' — Witness:   'We   wanted   the   comforts   of  our 

little  home.'     A  juror  asked  what  the  comforts  were,  for 

he  only  saw  a  little  straw  in  the  corner  of  the  room,   the 

windows  of  which  were  broken.     The  witness  began  to  cry, 

and  said  that  they  had  a  quilt  and  other  little  things.    The 

deceased  said  he  never  would  go  into  the  workhouse.      Ti 

Rammer,  when  the  season  was  good,  they  sometimes  made  as 

much  as  lOs.  profit  in  the  week     They  then  always  saved 

towards  the  next  week,  which  was  generally  a  bad  one.     Id 

*  One  of  the  things  which  we  must  very  resolutely  enforce,  for  the 
good  of  all  classes,  in  our  future  arrangements,  must  be  that  they  wea« 
no  "  translated  "  articloa  of  dress.     See  the  preface. 


57 

winter  they  made  not  half  so  much.  For  three  years  tney 
had  been  getting  from  bad  to  worse. — Cornelius  ColHiis  said 
that  he  had  assisted  his  father  since  1847.  They  used  to 
work  so  far  into  the  night  that  both  nearly  lost  thei. 
eyesight.  Witness  now  had  a  film  over  his  eyes.  Five 
years  ago  deceased  applied  to  the  parish  for  aid.  The 
relieving  officer  gave  him.  a  41b.  loaf,  and  told  him  if 
lie  came  again  he  should  '  get  the  stones.'  *    That  disgusted 

♦  This  abbreviation  of  the  penalty  of  useless  labour  is  curiously  coinci 
dent  in  verbal  form  with  a  certain  passage  which  some  of  us  may  remem- 
ber. It  may  perhaps  be  well  to  preserve  beside  this  paragraph  another 
cutting  out  of  my  store-drawer,  from  the  Morning  Post^  of  about  a  parallel 

date,  Friday,  March  10th,  1865  : — "  The  salons  of  Mme.  C ,  who  did 

the  honours  with  clever  imitative  grace  and  elegance,  were  crowded  with 
princes,  dukes,  marquises,  and  counts — in  fact,  with  the  same  male  com- 
pany as  one  meets  at  the  parties  of  the  Princess  Metternich  and  Madame 
Drouyn  de  Lhuys.  Some  English  peers  and  members  of  Parliament  were 
present,  and  appeared  to  enjoy  the  animated  and  dazzlingly  improper  scene. 
On  the  second  floor  the  supper  tables  were  loaded  with  every  delicacy 
of  the  season.  That  your  readers  may  form  some  idea  of  the  dainty 
fare  of  the  Parisian  demimonde,  I  copy  the  menu  of  the  supper,  which 
was  served  to  all  the  guests  (about  200)  seated  at  four  o'clock.  Choice 
Yquem,  Johannisberg,  Laffitte,  Tokay,  and  Champagne  of  the  finest 
yintage'i  were  served  most  lavishly  throughout  the  morning.  After 
supper  dancing  was  resumed  with  increased  animation,  and  the  ball 
tei-minated  with  a  chaine  diabolique  and  a  cancan  cCenfer  at  seven  in  ilm 

morning.     (Morning-service — 'Ere  the  fresh  lawns  appeared,  under  thw 

3* 


58   .  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

deceased,  and  he  would  have  nothing  lo  do  with  them  since 
They  got  worse  and  worse  until  last  Friday  week,  when 
they  had  not  even  a  halfpenny  to  buy  a  candle.  Deceased 
then  lay  down  on  the  straw,  and  said  he  could  not  live 
till  morning. — ^A  juror:  You  are  dying  of  starvation  yourself, 
and  you  ought  to  go  into  the  house  until  the  summer. 
Witness :  If  we  went  in  we  should  die.  When  we  come  out 
in  the  summer  we  should  be  like  people  dropped  from  the 
sky.  No  one  would  know  us,  and  we  would  not  have  even 
a  room.  I  could  work  now  if  I  had  food,  for  my  sight 
would  get  better.  Dr.  G.  P.  Walker  said  deceased  died 
from  syncope,  from  exhaustion  from  want  of  food.  The 
deceased  had  had  no  bedclothes.  For  four  months  he  had 
had  nothing  but  bread  to  eat.  There  was  not  a  particle 
of  fat  in  the  body.  There  was  no  disease,  but  if  there 
had  been  medical  attendance,  he  might  have  survived  the 
syncope  or  fainting.  The  coroner  having  remarked  upon  the 
painful  nature  of  the  case,  the  jury  returned  the  following 

opening  eyelids  of  t"he  Morn. — *)  Here  ia  the  menu: — 'Consomm6  de 
volaille  ^  la  Bagration;  16  hors-d'oeuvres  varies.  Bonchees  4  la  Talloy* 
and.  Saumons  froids,  sauce  Ravigote.  Filets  de  boevif  en  Bellevue, 
timbales  niilanaises  chaiidfroid  de  gibier.  Dindes  truffdes.  Pdt^s  de 
foie^  gras,  buissons  d'esrevisses,  saJades  v^n^tiennes,  gel^s  blanches 
aux  fruits,  gateaux  manoini,  parisiens  et  parisiennes.  Froiuages  glac^ 
Ajianjw.    Dessert.' " 


OF  kings'  tkeasuries.  59 

verdict,  'That  deceased  died  from  exhaustion  from  want  of 
food  and  the  common  necessaries  of  life;  also  through  want 
of  medical  aid.' " 

"  Why  would  witness  not  go  into  the  workhouse  ?"  yot. 
ask.  Well,  the  poor  seem  to  have  a  prejudice  against  tlie 
workhouse  which  the  rich  have  not ;  for  of  course  every  one 
who  takes  a  pension  from  Grovernment  goes  into  the  work- 
house on  a  grand  scale :  only  the  workhouses  for  the 
rich  do  not  involve  the  idea  of  work,  and  should  be  called 
play-houses.  But  the  poor  like  to  die  independently,  it 
appears  ;  perhaps  if  we  made  the  play-houses  for  them  pretty 
and  pleasant  enough,  or  gave  them  their  pensions  at  home, 
and  allowed  them  a  little  introductory  peculation  with  the 
public  money,  their  minds  might  be  reconciled  to  it.  Mean- 
time,  here  are  the  facts :  we  make  our  relief  either  so  insult- 
ing to  them,  or  so  painful,  that  they  rather  die  than  take  it  at 
our  hands ;  or,  for  third  alternative,  we  leave  them  so 
untaught  and  foolish  that  they  starve  like  brute  creatures, 
wild  and  dumb,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  or  what  to  ask.  I 
say,  you  despise  compassion ;  if  you  did  not,  such  a  news- 
paper paragraph  would  be  as  impossible  in  a  Christian 
country  as  a  deliberate  assassination  permitted  in  its  public 
Btreets.*     "Christian"  did  I   say?     Alas,   if  we   were   but 

*  1   im  heartily  glad  to  see  such  a  paper  as  the    Pall  Mall  GatetU 


60  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

wholesomely  un-Christian,  it  would  be  impossible:  it  is  oiii 
imaginaiy  Cliristianity  that  helps  us  to  commit  these  crimes, 

efjtablished ;  for  the  power  of  the  press  in  the  hands  of  highly-educated 
.nen,  in  independent  position,  and  of  honest  purpose,  may  indeed  beconi 
all  that  it  has  been  hitherto  vainly  vaunted  to  be.  Its  editor  wiU  therefore^ 
I  doubt  not,  pardon  me,  in  that,  by  very  reason  of  my  respect  for  the 
journal,  I  do  not  let  pass  unnoticed  an  article  in  its  third  number,  page  5, 
which  was  wrong  in  every  word  of  it,  with  the  intense  wrongness  which 
only  an  honest  man  can  achieve  who  has  taken  a  false  turn  of  thoughi 
In  the  outset,  and  is  following  it,  regardless  of  consequences.  It  contained 
at  the  end  this  notable  passage : — 

"  The  bread  of  affliction,  and  the  Wcater  of  affliction — aye,  and  the  bed- 
steads and  blankets  of  affliction,  are  the  very  utmost  that  the  law  ought  to 
give  to  outcasts  merely  as  outcasts."  I  merely  put  beside  this  expression  of 
the  gentlemanly  mind  of  England  in  1865,  a  part  of  the  message  which 
Isaiah  was  ordered  to  "lift  up  his  voice  like  a  trumpet''  in  declaring  to  the 
gentlemen  of  his  day:  "Ye  fast  for  strife,  and  to  smite  with  the  fist 
of  wickedness.  Is  not  this  the  fast  that  I  have  chosen,  to  deal  thy  bread 
to  the  hungry,  and  that  thou  bring  the  poor  that  are  cast  out  (margin 
'afflicted')  to  (hy  house."  The  falsehood  on  which  the  writer  had  mentally 
founded  himself,  as  previously  stated  by  him,  was  this :  "  To  confound  the 
(Ituctions  of  the  dispensers  of  the  poor-rates  with  those  of  the  dispensers 
of  a  charitable  institution  is  a  great  and  pernicious  error."  This  sentence 
,0  so  accurately  and  exquisitely  wrong,  that  its  substance  must  be  thus 
eveised  in  our  minds  betore  wo  car.  deal  with  any  existing  problem 
of  nalional  distress.  "  To  understand  that  the  dispensers  of  the  poor-ratoi 
Are   the  almoners  of  the  nation    and  should  distribute  its  alrns  with  a 


61 

for  we  revel  find  luxuriate  hi  our  faith,  for  the  lewd  sensation 
of  it ;  dressing  it  up,  like  everything  else,  in  fiction.  The 
dramatic  Chiistianity  of  the  organ  and  aisle,  of  dawn-service 
and  twilight-revival — the  Christianity  which  we  do  not  fear 
to  mix  the  mockery  of,  pictorially,  with  our  play  about  the 
devil,  in  our  Satanellas, — Roberts, — Fausts,  chanting  hymns 
through  traceried  windows  for  back-ground  effect,  and  artisti- 
cally modulating  the  "  Dio  "  through  variation  on  variation 
of  mimicked  prayer  :  (while  we  distribute  tracts,  next  day, 
for  the  benefit  of  uncultivated  swearers,  upon  what  we 
suppose  to  be  the  signification  of  the  Third  Commandment ;) 
— this  gas-lighted,  and  gas-inspired,  Christianity,  we  are 
triumphant  in,  and  draw  back  the  hem  of  our  robes  from  the 
touch  of  the  heretics  who  dispute  it.  But  to  do  a  piece  of 
common  Christian  righteousness  in  a  plain  English  word  or 
deed;  to  make  Christian  law  any  rule  of  life,  and  found  one 
National  act  or  hope  thereon, — we  know  too  well  what  our 
faith  comes  to  for  that !  You  might  sooner  get  lightning 
out  of  incense  smoke  than  true  action  or  passion  out  of  your 
modern  English  religion.  You  had  better  get  rid  of  the 
smoke,   and  the   organ  pipes,   both:    leave  them,  and  the 

gentleness  and  freedom  of  hand  as  much  greater  and  franker  than  that 
possible  to  individual  charity,  as  the  collective  national  wisdom  and  powor 
may  be  supposed  greater  than  those  of  any  smgle  person,  is  the  foundation 
of  all  law  respecting  pauperism." 


62  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

Gotliic  windows,  and  the  painted  glass,  to  the  property  manj 
give  up  youi  carburetted  hydrogen  ghost  in  one  healthy 
expiration,  and  laok  after  Lazarus  at  the  door-step.  For 
there  is  a  true  Church  wherever  one  hand  meets  another 
Helpfully,  and  that  is  the  only  holy  or  Mother  Church  wliicb 
ever  was,  or  ever  shall  be. 

All  these  pleasures,  then,  and  all  these  virtues,  I  repeat, 
you  nationally  despise.  You  have,  indeed,  men  among  you 
who  do  not ;  by  whose  work,  by  whose  strength,  by  whose 
life,  by  whose  death,  you  live,  and  never  thank  them.  Your 
wealth,  your  amusement,  your  pride,  would  all  ise  alike 
impossible,  but  for  those,  whom  you  scorn  or  forget.  The 
policeman,  who  is  walking  up  and  down  the  black  lane  all 
night  to  watch  the  guilt  you  have  created  there,  and  may 
have  his  brains  beaten  out  and  be  maimed  for  life  at  any 
moment,  and  never  be  thanked  ;  the  sailor  wrestling  with  the 
sea's  rage ;  the  quiet  student  poring  over  his  book  or  hia 
vial ;  the  common  worker,  without  praise,  and  nearly  without 
bi'ead,  fulfilling  his  task  as  your  horses  drag  your  carts,  hop^ 
less,  and  spurned  of  all :  these  are  the  men  by  whom  Eng« 
Jaud  lives ;  but  they  are  not  the  nation ;  they  are  only  the 
body  and  nervous  force  of  it,  acting  still  from  old  habit  in  a 
convulsive  perseverance,  while  the  mind  is  gone.  Our 
National  mind  and  purpose  are  to  be  amused ;  our  National 
religion,  the  perfoimance  of  church  ceremonies,  and  preachr 


OF  K[]S"GS'    TREASUEIES.  G3 

ing  of  soporific  truths  (or  untrutlis)  to  keep  the  mob  quietly 
at  work,  while  we  amuse  ourselves;  and  the  necessity  for 
this  amusement  is  fastening  on  us  as  a  feverous  disease  of 
parched  throat  and  wandering  eyes  —  senseless,  dissolute, 
merciless.  When  men  are  rightly  occupied,  their  amuse- 
ment grows  out  of  their  work,  as  the  colour-petals  out  of  a 
fruitful  flower; — when  they  are  faithfully  helpful  and  com- 
passionate, all  their  emotions  become  steady,  deep,  perpetual, 
and  vivifying  to  the  soul  as  the  natural  pulse  to  the  body. 
But  now,  having  no  true  business,  we  pour  our  whole  mascu 
line  energy  into  the  false  business  of  money-making ;  and 
having  no  true  emotion,  we  must  have  false  emotions  dressed 
up  for  us  to  play  with,  not  innocently,  as  children  with  dolls, 
but  guiltily  and  darkly,  as  the  idolatrous  Jews  with  their  pic 
tures  on  cavern  walls,  which  men  had  to  dig  to  detect.  The 
justice  we  do  not  execute,  we  mimic  in  the  novel  and  on  the 
stage ;  for  the  beauty  we  destroy  in  nature,  we  substitute 
the  metamorphosis  of  the  pantomime,  and  (the  human  nature 
of  us  imperatively  requiring  awe  and  sorrow  of  some  kmu) 
for  the  noble  grief  we  should  have  borne  with  our  fellows, 
and  the  pure  tears  we  should  have  wept  with  them,  we  gloat 
over  the  pathos  of  the  police  court,  and  gather  the  night-dew 
of  the  grave. 

It  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  true  significance  of   these 
things ;    the   facts   are  trightful   enough  ; — the   measure  of 


64  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

national  fault  involved  in  them  is  perhaps  not  as  great  as  it 
would  at  first  seem.  We  permit,  or  cause,  thousands  oi 
deaths  daily,  but  we  mean  no  harm ;  we  set  fire  to  houses, 
and  ravage  peasants'  fields ;  yet  we  should  be  sorry  to  find 
we  had  injured  anybody.  We  are  still  kind  at  heart ;  still 
capable  of  virtue,  but  only  as  children  are.  Chalmers,  at  the 
end  of  his  long  life,  having  had  much  power  with  the  public, 
being  plagued  in  some  serious  matter  by  a  reference  to 
"public  opinion,"  uttered  the  impatient  exclamation,  "The 
public  is  just  a  great  baby !"  And  the  reason  that  I  have 
allowed  all  these  graver  subjects  of  thought  to  mix  them- 
selves up  with  an  inquiry  into  methods  of  reading,  is  that, 
the  more  I  see  of  our  national  faults  or  miseries,  the  more 
they  resolve  themselves  into  conditions  of  childish  illiterate- 
ness,  and  want  of  education  in  the  most  ordinary  habits  of 
thought.  It  is,  I  repeat,  not  vice,  not  selfishness,  not  dulness 
of  brain,  which  we  have  to  lament ;  but  an  unreachable 
schoolboy's  recklessness,  only  differing  from  the  true  school- 
boy's in  its  incapacity  of  being  helped,  because  it  acknow- 
ledges no  master.  There  is  a  curious  type  of  us  given  in 
one  of  the  lovely,  neglected  works  of  the  last  of  our  gieat 
painters.  It  is  a  drawing  of  Kirkby  Lonsdale  churchyard, 
dud  of  its  brook,  and  valley,  and  hills,  and  folded  morning 
sky  beyond.  And  unmindful  alike  of  these,  and  of  the  dead 
who  have  left  these  for  other  valleys  and  for  other  skies,  a 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  65 

group  of  schoolboys  have  piled  their  little  books  upon  a 
grave,  to  strike  them  off  with  stones.  So  do  we  play  with 
the  words  of  the  dead  that  would  teach  us,  and  strike  them 
far  from  us  with  om*  bitter,  reckless  will,  little  thinking  that 
those  leaves  which  the  wind  scatters  had  been  piled,  not  only 
upon  a  gravestone,  but  upon  the  seal  of  an  enchanted  vaults 
nay,  the  gate  of  a  great  city  of  sleeping  kings,  who  would 
awake  for  ns,  and  walk  with  us,  if  we  knew  but  how  to  call 
them  by  their  names.  How  often,  even  if  we  lift  the  marble 
entrance  gate,  dp  we  but  wander  among  those  old  kings  in 
their  repose,  and  finger  the  robes  they  lie  in,  and  stir  the 
crowns  on  their  forelieads;  and  still  they  are  silent  to  us,  and 
seem  but  a  dusty  imagery;  because  we  know  not  the  incan- 
tation of  the  heart  that  would  wake  them; — which,  if  they 
once  heard,  they  would  start  up  to  meet  us  in  their  power 
of  long  ago,  narrowly  to  look  upon  us,  and  consider  us;  and, 
as  the  fallen  kings  of  Hades  meet  the  newly  fallen,  saying, 
"Art  thou  also  become  weak  as  we — art  thou  also  become 
one  of  us  ?"  so  would  these  king.?,  with  their  undimmed, 
unshaken  diadems,  meet  us,  saying,  *'  Art  thou  also  become 
pure  and  mighty  of  heart  as  we  ?  art  thou  also  become  one 
of  us?" 

Mighty  of  heart,  mighty  of  mind — "magnanimous" — to 
be  this,  is  indeed  to  be  great  in  life  ;  to  become  this  increas- 
ingly, is,  indeed,  to  "  advance  in  hfe," — in  life  itself— not  in 


6Q  SESAME   AKD   LILIES. 

the  trappings  of  it.  My  friends,  do  you  remember  that  old 
Scythian  custom,  when  the  head  of  a  house  died  ?  How  he 
was  dressed  in  his  finest  dress,  and  set  in  his  chariot,  and 
carried  about  to  his  friends'  houses;  and  each  of  them  placed 
him  at  his  table's  head,  and  all  feasted  in  his  presence'? 
Suppose  it  were  ofiered  to  you,  in  plain  words,  as  it  is  offered 
to  you  in  dire  facts,  that  you  should  gain  this  Scythian  hon- 
our, gradually,  while  you  yet  thought  yourself  alive..  Sup- 
pose the  offer  were  this:  "You  shall  die  slowly;  your  blood 
shall  daily  grow  cold,  your  flesh  petrify,  your  heart  beat  at 
last  only  as  a  rusted  group  of  iron  valves.  Your  life  shall 
fade  from  you,  and  sink  through  the  earth  into  the  ice  of 
Caina;  but,  day  by  day,  your  body  shall  be  dressed  more 
gaily,  and  set  in  higher  chariots,  and  have  more  orders  on 
its  breast — crowns  on  its  head,  if  you  will.  Men  shall  bow 
before  it,  stare  and  shout  round  it,  crowd  after  it  up  and 
down  the  streets ;  build  palaces  for  it,  feast  with  it  at  their 
tables'  heads  all  the  night  long;  your  soul  shall  stay  enough 
within  it  to  know  what  they  do,  and  feel  the  weight  of  the 
golden  dress  on  its  shoulders,  and  the  furrow  of  the  crown- 
edge  on  the  skull ; — no  more.  "Would  you  take  the  offer, 
verbally  made  by  the  death-angel?  Would  the  meanest 
among  us  take  it,  think  you?  Yet  practically  and  verily  we 
grasp  at  it,  every  one  of  us,  in  a  measure;  many  of  us  grasp 
at  it  in  its  fulness  of  horror.     Every  man  accepts  it,  who 


OF  kings'  treasuries.  67 

desires  to  advance  in  life  without  knowing  what  life  is ;  who 
means  only  that  he  is  to  get  more  horses,  and  more  footmen, 
and  more  fortune,  and  more  public  honour,  and — not  more 
personal  soul.  He  only  is  advancing  in  life,  whose  heart  i 
getting  softer,  whose  blood  warmer,  whose  brain  quicker 
whose  spirit  is  entering  into  Living  *  peace.  And  the  men 
who  have  this  life  in  them  are  the  true  lords  or  kings  of  the 
earth — they,  and  they  only.  All  other  kingships,  so  far  as 
they  are  true,  are  only  the  practical  issue  and  expression  of 
theirs  ;  if  less  than  this,  they  are  either  dramatic  royalties, — ■ 
costly  shows,  with  real  jewels  instead  of  tinsel — the  toys  of 
nations ;  or  else,  they  are  no  royalties  at  all,  but  tyrannies, 
or  the  mere  active  and  practical  issue  of  national  folly ;  for 
which  reason  I  haye  said  of  them  elsewhere,  "Visible  govern- 
ments are  the  toys  of  some  nations,  the  diseases  of  others, 
the  harness  of  some,  the  burdens  of  more." 

But  I  have  no  words  for  the  wonder  with  which  I  hear 
Kinghood  still  spoken  of,  even  among  thoughtful  men,  as  if 
governed  nations  were  a  personal  property,  and  might  be 
bought  and  sold,  or  otherwise  acquired,  as  sheep,  of  whose 
flesh  their  king  was  to  feed,  and  whose  fleece  he  was  to 
gather ;  as  if  Achilles'  indignant  epithet  of  base  kings,  "peo- 
ple-eating," were  the  constant  and  proper  title  of  all  mo- 
narchs ;    and  enlargement  of  a  king's  dominion  meant  the 

♦  *' rd  6i  ^6vrina  rov  irvcvuaTOS  ^w^  Koi  slpfivti,^ 


68  SESAME  AND   LILIES. 

same  thing  as  the  increase  of  a  private  man's  estate  !  Kings 
who  think  so,  however  powerful,  can  no  more  be  the  tr\ifl 
kings  of  the  nation  than  gad-flies  are  the  kings  of  a  horse  ; 
they  suck  it,  and  may  drive  it  wild,  but  do  not  guide  it. 
They,  and  their  courts,  and  their  armies  are,  if  one  could 
see  clearly,  only  a  large  species  of  marsh  mosquito,  with 
bayonet  proboscis  and  melodious,  band-mastered,  trumpeting 
in  the  summer  air ;  the  twilight  being,  perhaps,  sometimes 
fairer,  but  hardly  more  wholesome,  for  its  glittering  mista 
of  midge  companies.  The  true  kings,  meanwhile,  rule  quietly, 
if  at  all,  and  hate  ruling;  too  many  of  them  make  "il  gran 
refiUto ;"  and  if  they  do  not,  the  mob,  as  soon  as  they  are 
likely  to  become  useful  to  it,  is  pretty  sure  to  make  its  "  grau 
refitito  "  of  them* 

Yet  the  visible  king  may  also  be  a  true  one,  some  day,  if 
ever  day  comes  when  he  will  estimate  his  dominion  by  the 
force  of  it, — not  the  geographical  boundaries.  It  matters 
very  little  whether  Trent  cuts  you  a  cantcl  out  here,  or 
Rhine  rounds  you  a  castle  less  there.  But  it  does  matter  to 
you,  king  of  men,  whether  you  can  verily  say  to  this  man, 
**  Go,"  and  he  goeth ;  and  to  another,  "  Come,"  and  ho 
Cometh.  Whether  you  can  turn  your  people  as  you  can 
Trent — and  where  it  is  that  you  bid  them  come,  and  where 
go.  It  matters  to  you,  king  of  men,  whether  your  people 
hate  you,  and   die  by  you,  or  love  you,  and  live  by  yoa 


OF  -kings'   TEEASURIES.  6S 

You  may  measure  your  dominion  by  multitudes  better  than 
by  miles ;  and  count  degrees  of  love  latitude,  not  from,  but 
to,  a  wonderfully  warm  and  infinite  equator.  Measure  !  nay 
you  cannot  measure.  Who  shall  measure  the  difference 
between  the  power  of  those  who  "  do  and  teach,"  and  who 
are  greatest  in  the  kingdoms  of  earth,  as  of  heaven — and  the 
power  of  those  who  undo,  and  consume — whose  power,  at 
the  fullest,  is  only  the  power  of  the  moth  and  the  rust? 
Strange !  to  think  how  the  Moth-kings  lay  up  treasures  for 
the  moth,  and  the  Rust-kings,  who  are  to  their  peoples' 
strength  as  rust  to  armour,  lay  up  treasures  for  the  rust;  and 
the  Robber-kings,  treasures  for  the  robber ;  but  how  few 
kings  have  ever  laid  up  treasures  that  needed  ho  guarding — ■ 
treasures  of  which,  the  more  thieves  there  were,  the  better  I 
Broidered  robe,  only  to  be  rent — helm  and  sword,  only  to  be 
dimmed;  jewel  and  gold,  only  to  be  scattered — there  have 
been  three  kinds  of  kings  who  have  gathered  these.  Sup- 
pose there  ever  should  arise  a  Fourth  order  of  kings,  who 
had  read,  in  some  obscure  writing  of  long  ago,  that  there 
was  a  Fourth  kind  of  treasure,  which  the  jewel  and  gold 
cc'ild  not  equal,  neither  should  it  be  valued  with  pure  gold. 
A  web  more  fair  in  the  weaving,  by  Athena's  shuttle ;  an 
armour,  forged  in  diviner  fire  by  Yulcanian  force — a  gold 
only  to  be  mined  in  the  sun's  red  heart,  where  he  sets  over 
the    Delphian    cliffs; — deep-pictured     tissue,     impenetrable 


70  SESAME  AND   LILIES. 

armour,  potable  gold! — the  three  great  Angels  of  Conduct, 
Toil,  and  Thought,  still  calling  to  us,  and  waiting  at  the  posts 
of  our  doors,  to  lead  us,  if  we  would,  with  their  winged 
power,  and  guide  us,  with  their  inescapable  eyes,  by  tho 
path  which  no  fowl  knoweth,  and  which  the  vulture's  eye 
has  not  seen !  Suppose  kings  should  ever  arise,  who  heard 
and  believed  this  word,  and  at  last  gathered  and  brought 
forth  treasures  of — Wisdom — for  their  people  ? 

Tliink  what  an  amazing  business  that  would  be  !  How 
inconceivable,  in  the  state  of  our  present  national  wisdom. 
That  we  should  bring  up  our  peasants  to  a  "book  exercise 
instead  of  a  bayonet  exercise ! — organize,  drill,  maintain  with 
pay,  and  good  generalship,  armies  of  thinkers,  instead  of 
armies  of  stabbers! — find  national  amusement  in  reading- 
rooms  as  well  as  rifle-grounds ;  give  prizes  for  a  fair  shot  at  a 
fact,  as  well  as  for  a  leaden  splash  on  a  target.  What  an 
absurd  idea  it  seems,  put  fairly  in  words,  that  the  wealth  of 
the  capitalists  of  civilized  nations  should  ever  come  to  sup 
port  literature  instead  of  war !  Have  yet  patience  with  me, 
while  I  read  you  a  single  sentence  out  of  the  only  book,  pro- 
perly  to  be  called  a  book,  that  I  have  yet  written  myself,  the 
one  that  will  stand,  (if  anything  stand,)  surest  and  longest  of 
all  work  of  mine. 

"  It  is  one  very  awful  form  of  the  operation  of  wealth  in  Europ« 
(hat  it  is  entire'}  capitaUsls*  wealth  which  supports  unjust  wars.   Just 


71 

wars  do  not  neeJ  so  much  money  to  support  them;  for  most  of  the 
men  who  wage  such,  wage  them  gratis ;  but  for  an  unjust  war,  men'a 
bodies  and  souls  have  both  to  be  bought;  and  the  best  to^ls  of  war 
{oT  them  besides,  which  makes  such  war  costly  to  the  maximum  ;  not 
to  speak  of  the  cost  of  base  fear,  and  angry  suspicion,  between  nations 
which  have  not  grace  nor  honesty  enough  in  all  their  multitudes  to 
buy  an  hour's  peace  of  mind  with;  as,  at  present  France  and  Eng- 
land, purchasing  of  each  other  ten  millions'  sterling  worth  of  conster- 
nation, annually  (a  remarkably  light  crop,  half  thorns  and  half  aspen 
leaves,  sown,  reaped,  and  granaried  by  the  '  science '  of  the  modern 
political  economist,  teaching  covetousness  instead  of  truth).  And,  all 
unjust  war  being  supportable,  if  not  by  pillage  of  the  enemy,  only  by 
loans  from  capitalists,  these  loans  are  repaid  by  subsequent  taxation 
of  the  people,  who  appear  to  have  no  will  in  the  matter,  the  capital- 
ists' will  being  the  primary  root  of  the  war;  but  its  real  root  is  the 
covetousness  of  the  whole  nation,  rendering  it  incapable  of  faith, 
fiankness,  or  justice,  and  bringing  about,  therefore,  in  due  time,  his 
own  separate  loss  and  punishment  to  each  person." 

France  and  England  literally,  observe,  buy  panic  of  each 
other;  they  pay,  each  of  them,  for  ten  thousand  thousand 
pouuds'  worth  of  terror,  a  year.  Now  suppose,  instead  of 
buying  these  ten  millions'  worth  of  panic  annually,  they 
made  up  their  minds  to  be  at  peace  with  each  other,  and  buy 
t^n  millions'  wcith  of  knowledge  annually;  and  that  each 
nation  spent  its  ten  thousand  thousand  pounds  a  year  in 
founding  royal  libraries,  royal  art  galleries,  royal  museums, 


72  SESAME   AND  LILIES. 

royal  gardens^  and  places  of  rest.     Might  it  not  be  better 
somewhat  for  both  French  and  Enorlish  ? 

It  will  be  long,  yet,  before  that  comes  to  pass.  Kever- 
theless,  I  hope  it  will  not  be  long  before  royal  or  national 
libraries  will  be  founded  in  every  considerable  city,  with 
royal  series  of  books  in  them ;  the  same  series  in  every  one 
of  them,  chosen  books,  the  best  in  every  kind,  prepared  for 
that  national  series  in  the  most  perfect  way  possible;  their 
text  printed  all  on  leaves  of  equal  size,  broad  of  margin,  and 
divided  into  pleasant  volumes,  light  in  the  hand,  beautiful, 
and  strong,  and  thorough  as  examples  of  binders'  work  ;  and 
that  these  great  libraries  will  be  accessible  to  all  clean  and 
orderly  persons  at  all  times  of  the  day  and  evening;  strict 
law  being  enforced  for  this  cleanliness  and  quietness. 

I  could  shape  for  you  other  plans,  for  art-galleries,  and  f(  r 
natural  history  galleries,  and  for  many  precious,  many,  it 
seems  to  me,  needful,  things ;  but  this  book  plan  is  the  easi- 
est and  needfuUest,  and  would  prove  a  considerable  tonic  to 
what  we  call  our  British  constitution,  w^hich  has  fallen  drop- 
sical of  latej  and  has  an  evil  thirst,  and  evil  hunger,  and 
wants  healthier  feeding.  You  have  got  its  corn  laws 
repealed  for  it ;  try  if  you  cannot  get  corn  laws  established 
for  it,  dealing  in  a  better  bread ; — ^bread  made  of  that  old 
enchanted  Arabian  grain,  the  Sesame,  which  opens  doors  ;— 
doors,  not  of  robbers',  but  of  Kings'  Treasuries. 


73 

Friends,  the  treasuries  of  true  kings  are  the  streets  of  their 
cities;  and  the  gold  they  gather,  which  for  others  is  as  the 
mire  of  the  streets,  changes  itself,  for  them  and  their  jteople, 
into  a  crystalline  pavement  for  evermore. 


LECTURE   II.— LILIES.      ' 

OF  queens'  gakdens. 

**  Be  thou  glad,  oh  thirsting"  Desert ;  let  the  desert  be  made  cheerful, 
and  bloom  as  the  lily ;  and  the  barren  places  of  Jordan  shall  run  wild 
with  wood." — Isaiah  35,  i.     (Septuagint.) 

It  will,  perhaps,  be  well,  as  tliis  Lecture  is  the  sequel  of  oue 
previously  given,  that  I  should  shortly  state  to  you  my  gene- 
ral intention  in  both.  The  questions  specially  proposed  to  you 
in  the  first,  namely.  How  and  What  to  Read,  rose  out  of  a  far 
deeper  one,  which  it  was  my  endeavour  to  make  you  propose 
earnestly  to  yourselves,  namely.  Why  to  Read.  I  want  you 
to  feel,  with  me,  that  whatever  advantages  we  possess  in  the 
present  day  in  the  diffusion  of  education  and  of  literature, 
can  only  be  rightly  used  by  any  of  us  when  we  have  appre- 
hended clearly  what  education  is  to  lead  to,  and  literature  to 
teach.  I  wish  you  to  see  that  both  well-directed  moral  train- 
ing and  well-chosen  reading  lead  to  the  possession  of  a  power 
over  the  ill-guided  and  illiterate,  which  is,  according  to  the 
measure  of  it,  in  the  truest  sense,  kingly  /  conferring  indeed 
the  purest  kingship  that  can  exist  among  men:  too  many 
other  kingships  (however  distinguished  by  visible  insignia 
or  material  power)  being  either  spectral,  or  tyrannous;— 


OF  queens'  gardens.  76 

spectral — that  is  to  say,  aspects  and  shadows  only  of  royalty, 
hollow  as  death,  and  which  only  the  "Likeness  of  a  kinglj 
crown  have  on ;"  or  else  tyrannous — that  is  to  say,  siibsti* 
tilting  their  own  wnll  for  the  law  of  justice  and  love  by  which 
all  true  kings  rule. 

There  is,  then,  I  repeat — and  as  I  want  to  leave  tliis  idea 
with  you,  I  begin  with  it,  and  shall  end  with  it — only  ona 
pure  kind  of  kingship;  an  inevitable  and  eternal  kind, 
crowned  or  not:  the  kingship,  namely,  which  consists  in  a 
stronger  moral  state,  and  a  truer  thoughtful  state,  than  that 
of  others ;  enabling  you,  therefore,  to  guide,  or  to  raise 
them.  Observe  that  word  "  Slate ;"  we  have  got  into  a  loose 
way  of  using  it.  It  means  literally  the  standing  and  stability 
of  a  thing ;  and  you  have  the  full  force  of  it  in  the  derived 
word  "  statue  " — "  the  immoveable  thing."  A  king's  majesty 
or  "state,"  then,  and  the  right  of  his  kingdom  to  be  called  a 
state,  depends  on  the  movelessness  of  both: — without  tre- 
mor, without  quiver  of  balance;  established  and  enthroned 
upon  a  foundation  of  eternal  law  which  nothing  can  alter  nor 
overthrow. 

Believing  that  all  literature  and  all  education  are  only  use 
ful  so  far  as  they  tend  to  confirm  this  calm,  beneficent,  and 
therefore  kingly,  power — first,  over  ourselves,  and,  through 
ourselves,  over  all  around  us,  I  am  now  going  to  ask  you  to 
consider  with  me  farther,  what  special  portion  or  kind  of 


7fl  SESAME   AND   LTLTES. 

this  royal  authority,  arising  out  of  noble  education,  may 
rightly  be  possessed  by  women;  and  liow  far  they  al^so  are 
called  to  a  true  queenly  power.  Not  in  their  households 
merely,  but  over  all  within  their  sphere.  And  in  what  sense, 
if  they  rightly  understood  and  exercised  this  royal  or  giBt 
cious  influence,  the  order  and  beauty  induced  by  such  benig- 
Dant  power  would  justify  us  in  speaking  of  the  territories 
over  which  each  of  them  reigned,  as  "'Queens'  Gardens." 

And  here,  in  the  very  outset,  we  are  met  by  a  far  deeper 
question,  which — strange  though  this  may  seem — remains 
among  many  of  us  yet  quite  undecided,  in  spite  of  its  infinite 
importance. 

We  cannot  determine  what  the  queenly  power  of  women 
should  be,  until  we  are  agreed  what  their  ordinary  power 
should  be.  We  cannot  consider  how  education  may  fit  them 
for  any  widely  extending  duty,  until  we  are  agreed  what  is 
their  true  constant  duty.  And  there  never  was  a  time  when 
wilder  words  were  spoken,  or  more  vain  imagination  per- 
mitted, respecting  this  question — quite  vital  to  all  social 
happiness.  The  relations  of  the  womanly  to  the  manly 
nature,  their  different  capacities  of  intellect  or  of  virtue,  seem 
uever  to  have  been  yet  measured  with  entire  consent.  We 
Dear  of  the  mission  and  of  the  rights  of  Woman,  as  if  these 
could  ever  be  separate  from  the  mission  and  ihe  rights  of 
Man  ; — as  if  she  and  her  lord  wore  creatures  of  independen; 


OF  queens'  gardens.  77 

kind  and  of  irreconcileable  claim.  This,  at  least,  is  wrong. 
And  not  less  wrong — perhaps  even  more  foolishly  wrong  (foi 
I  will  anticipate  thus  far  what  I  hope  to  prove) — is  the  ide 
that  woman  is  only  the  shadow  and  attendant  image  of  hei 
lord,  owing  him  a  thoughtless  and  servile  obedience,  and 
supported  altogether  in  her  weakness  by  the  pre-eminence  of 
his  foi-titude. 

This,  I  say,  is  the  most  foolish  of  all  errors  respecting  her 
who  was  made  to  be  the  helpmate  of  man.  As  if  he  could 
be  helped  effectively  by  a  shadow,  or  worthily  by  a  slave  I 

Let  us  try,  then,  whether  we  cannot  get  at  some  clear  and 
harmonious  idea  (it  must  be  harmonious  if  it  is  true)  of  what 
womanly  mind  and  virtue  are  in  power  and  office,  with 
respect  to  man's ;  and  how  their  relations,  rightly  accepted, 
aid,  and  increase,  the  vigour,  and  honour,  and  authority  of 
both. 

And  now  I  must  repeat  one  thing  I  said  in  the  last  lecture  : 
namely,  that  the  first  use  of  education  was  to  enable  us  to 
consult  with  the  wisest  and  the  greatest  men  on  all  points  of 
earnest  difficulty.  That  to  use  books  rightly,  was  to  go  to 
them  for  help  :  to  appeal  to  them,  when  our  own  knowledge 
and  power  of  thought  failed  ;  to  be  led  by  them  into  wider 
sight,  purer  conception  than  our  own,  and  receive  from  them 
the  united  sentence  of  the  judges  and  councils  of  all  time, 
against  our  solitary  and  unstable  opinion. 


78  SESAME   AKD  LILIES. 

Let  us  do  this  now.  Let  us  see  whether  the  greatest,  the 
wisest,  the  purest-hearted  of  all  ages  are  agreed  in  any  wise 
on  this  point:  let  us  hear  the  testimony  they  have  left 
respecting  what  they  held  to  be  the  true  dignity  of  woman, 
and  her  mode  of  help  to  man. 

And  first  let  us  take  Shakespeare. 

Note  broadly  in  the  outset,  Shakespeare  has  no  heroes  ;— 
he  has  only  heroines.  There  is  not  one  entirely  heroic  figure 
in  all  his  plays,  except  the  slight  sketch  of  Henry  the  Fifth, 
exaggerated  for  the  purposes  of  the  stage;  and  the  still 
shghter  Valentine  in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 
In  his  laboured  and  perfect  plays  you  have  no  hero. 
Othello  would  have  been  one,  if  his  simplicity  had  not  been 
so  great  as  to  leave  him  the  prey  of  every  base  practice 
round  him ;  but  he  is  the  only  example  even  approximating 
to  the  heroic  type.  Coriolanus — Caesar — Antony,  stand  in 
flawed  strength,  and  fall  by  their  vanities ; — Hamlet  is  indo- 
lent, and  drowsily  speculative ;  Romeo  an  impatient  boy  ;  the 
Merchant  of  Venice  languidly  submissive  to  adverse  fortune; 
Kent,  in  King  Lear,  is  entirely  noble  at  heart,  but  too  rough 
and  unpolished  to  be  of  true  use  at  the  critical  time,  and  he 
links  into  the  office  of  a  servant  only.  Orlando,  no  less  noble, 
b  yet  the  despairing  toy  of  chance,  followed,  comforted, 
Baved,  by  Rosalind.  Whereas  there  is  hardly  a  play  that  hai 
not  a  perfect  woman  in  it,  steadfast  in  grave  hope,  and  error- 


OF  queens'  gakdens.  79 

less  purpose;  Cordelia,  Desderaona,  Isabella,  Hermione, 
Imogen,  Queen  Katlierine,  Perdita,  Sylvia,  Yiola,  Rosalind, 
Helena,  and  last,  and  perhaps  loveliest,  Virgilia,  are  all  fault- 
less ;  conceived  in  the  highest  heroic  type  of  humanity. 

Then  observe,  secondly, 

The  catastrophe  of  every  play  is  caused  always  by  the  folly 
or  fault  of  a  man ;  the  redemption,  if  there  be  any,  is  by  the 
wisdom  and  virtue  of  a  woman,  and,  failing  that,  there  i8 
none.  The  catastrophe  of  King  Lear  is  owing  to  his  own 
want  of  judgment,  his  impatient  vanity,  his  misunderstanding 
of  his  children  ;  the  virtue  of  his  one  true  daughter  would 
have  saved  him  from  all  the  injuries  of  the  others,  unless  he 
had  cast  her  away  from  him;  as  it  is,  she  all  but  saves  him. 

Of  Othello  I  need  not  trace  the  tale ; — nor  the  one  weak- 
ness of  his  so  mighty  love ;  nor  the  inferiority  of  his  percep- 
tive intellect  to  that  even  of  the  second  woman  character  in 
the  play,  the  Emilia  who  dies  in  wild  testimony  against  his 
error  : — "  Oh,  murderous  coxcomb  !  What  should  such  a 
fool  Do  with  so  good  a  wife  ?" 

In  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  wise  and  entirely  brave  strata- 
gem of  the  wife  is  brought  to  ruinous  issue  by  the  reckless 
impatience  of  her  husband.  In  Winter's  Tale,  and  in  Cyni- 
beline,  the  happiness  and  existence  of  two  princely  house- 
holds, lost  through  long  years,  and  imperilled  to  the  death 
by  the  folly  and  obstinacy  of  the  husbands,  are  redeemed  a1 


80  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

last  by  the  queenly  patience  and  wisdom  of  the  wives.  In 
Measure  for  Measure,  the  injustice  of  the  judges,  and  the 
corrupt  cowardice  of  the  brother,  are  opposed  to  the  victori- 
ous truth  and  adamantine  purity  of  a  woman.  In  Coriolanus, 
the  mother's  counsel,  acted  upon  in  time,  would  have  saved 
her  son  from  all  evil;  his  momentary  forgetfulness  of  it  is 
his  ruin  ;  her  prayer  at  last  granted,  saves  him — not,  indeed, 
from  death,  but  from  the  curse  of  living  as  the  destroyer  of 
his  country. 

And  what  shall  I  say  of  Julia,  constant  against  the  fickle- 
ness of  a  lover  who  is  a  mere  wicked  child? — of  Helena, 
against  the  petulance  and  insult  of  a  careless  youth  ? — of  the 
patience  of  Hero,  the  passion  of  Beatrice,  and  the  calmly 
devoted  wisdom  of  the  "  unlessoned  girl,"  who  appears 
among  the  helplessness,  the  blindness,  and  the  vindictive  pas- 
sions of  men,  as  a  gentle  angel,  to  save  merely  by  her  presence, 
and  defeat  the  worst  intensities  of  crime  by  her  smile  ? 

Observe,  further,  among  all  the  principal  figures  in  Shake- 
speare's plays,  there  is  only  one  weak  woman — Ophelia;  and 
it  is  because  she  fails  Hamlet  at  the  critical  moment,  and  is 
not,  and  cannot  in  her  nature  be,  a  guide  to  him  when  he 
needs  her  most,  that  all  the  bitter  catastrophe  follows. 
Finally,  though  there  are  three  wicked  women  among  the 
principal  figures,  Lady  Macbeth,  Regan,  and  Goneril,  they 
are  felt  at  once  to  be  frightful  exceptions  to  the  ordinary 
laws  of  life ;  fatal  in  their  influence  also  in  proportion  to  the 
power  for  good  which  they  have  abandoned. 


OF  QUEENS'  GAEDENS.  81 

Such,  in  broad  ligbt,  is  Shakespeare's  testimony  to  the 
position  and  character  of  women  in 'human  life.  He  repre- 
sents them  as  infallibly  faithful  and  wise  counsellors, — incor- 
ruptibly  just  and  pure  examples — strong  always  to  sanctify, 
even  when  they  cannot  save. 

Not  as  in  any  wise  comparable  in  knowledge  of  the  nature 
of  man, — still  less  in  his  understanding  of  the  causes  and 
courses  of  fate, — but  only  as  the  writer  who  has  given  us  the 
broadest  view  of  the  conditions  and  modes  of  ordinary 
thought  in  modern  society,  I  ask  you  next  to  receive  the 
witness  of  Walter  Scott.  _ 

I  put  aside  his  merely  romantic  prose  writings  as  of  no 
value:  and  though  the  early  romantic  poetry  is  very  beauti- 
ful, its  testimony  is  of  no  weight,  other  than  that  of  a  boy's 
ideal.  But  his  true  works,  studied  from  Scottish  life,  bear 
a  true  witness,  and  in  the  whole  range  of  these  there  are  but 
three  men  who  reach  the  heroic  type* — Dandie  Dinmont,  Rob 
Roy,  and  Claverhouse  :  of  these,  one  is  a  border  fjirmer ;  ano- 
ther a  freebooter;  the  third  a  soldier  in  a  bad  cause.  And 
these  touch  the  ideal  of  heroism  only  in  their  courage  and 

*  I  ought,  in  order  to  make  this  assertion  fully  understood,  to  have 
noted  the  various  weaknesses  which  lower  the  ideal  of  other  great 
cliaracters  of  men  in  the  Waverley  novels — the  selfishness  and  narrow- 
ness of  thought  in  Redgauntlet,  the  weak  religious  enthusiasm  in 
Edward  Glendenning,  and  the  like ;  and  I  ought  to  have  noticed  that 
there  are  several  quite  perfect  characters  sketched  sometimes  in  the 
backgrounds;  three — let  us  accept  joyously  this  courtesy  to  England 
and  her  soldiers — are  English  officers :  Colonel  Gardiner,  Colonel  Talbot, 
and  Colonel  Mannering. 


83  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

faith,  together  with  a  strong,  but  uncultivated,  or  mistakenly 
applied,  intellectual  poVer;  while  his  younger  men  are  the 
gentlemanly  playthings  of  fantastic  fortune,  and  only  by  aid 
(or  accident)  of  that  fortune,  survive,  not  vanquish,  the  trials 
they  involuntarily  sustain.  Of  any  disciplined,  or  consistent 
character,  earnest  in  a  purpose  wisely  conceived,  or  dealing 
with  forms  of  hostile  evil,  definitely  challenged,  and  reso- 
lutely subdued,  there  is  no  trace  in  his  conceptions  of  men. 
Whereas  in  his  imaginations  of  women, — in  the  characters  of 
Ellen  Douglas,  of  Flora  Maclvor,  Rose  Bradwardine,  Cathe- 
rine Seyton,  Diana  Vernon,  Lilias  Redgauntlet,  Alice  Bridge- 
north,  Alice  Lee,  and  Jeanie  Deans, — with  endless  varieties 
of  grace,  tenderness,  and  intellectual  power,  we  find  in  all  a 
quite  infallible  and  inevitable  sense  of  dignity  and  justice; 
a  fearless,  instant,  and  imtiring  self-sacrifice  to  even  the 
appearance  of  duty,  much  more  to  its  real  claims;  and, 
finally,  a  patient  wisdom  of  deeply  restrained  afiection,  which 
does  infinitely  more  than  protect  its  objects  from  a  momen- 
tary error;  it  gradually  forms,  animates,  and  exalts  the 
characters  of  the  unworthy  lovers,  until,  at  the  close  of  the 
tale,  we  are  just  able,  and  no  more,  to  take  patience  in  hear- 
ing of  their  unmerited  success. 

So  that  in  all  cases,  with  Scott  as  with  Shakespeare,  it  is 
the  woman  who  watches  over,  teaches,  and  guides  the  youth ; 
it  is  never,  by  any  chance,  the  youth  who  watches  over  or 
educates  his  mistress. 

Next,  take,  though  more  briefly,  graver  and  deeper  testi- 


OF  queens'  gardens.  83 

mony-— that  of  the  great  Italians  and  Greeks.  You.  know 
well  the  plan  of  Dante's  great  poem — that  it  is  a  love  poem 
to  his  dead  lady,  a  song  of  praise  for  her  watch  over  his  soul. 
Stooping  only  to  pity,  never  to  love,  she  yet  saves  him  from 
destruction — saves  him  from  hell.  He  is  going  eternally 
astray  in  despair ;  she  comes  down  from  heaven  to  his  help, 
and  throughout  the  ascents  of  Paradise  is  his  teacher,  inter- 
preting for  him  the  most  difficult  truths,  divine  and  human; 
and  leading  him,  with  rebuke  upon  rebuke,  from  star  to  star. 
I  do  not  insist  upon  Dante's  conception  ;  if  I  began  I 
could  not  cease:  besides,  you  might  think  this  a  wild  ima- 
gination of  one  poet's  heart.  So  I  will  rather  read  to  you 
a  few  verses  of  the  deliberate  writing  of  a  knight  of  Pisa  to 
his  living  lady,  wholly  characteristic  of  the  feeling  of  all 
the  noblest  men  of  the  thirteenth  century,  preserved  among 
many  other  such  records  of  knightly  honour  and  love,  which 
Dante  Rossetti  has  gathered  for  us  from  among  the  early 
Italian  poets. 

For  lol    thy  law  is  passed 
That  this  my  love  should  manifestly  be 

To  serve  and  honour  thee: 
And  so  I  do;   and  my  delight  is  full, 
Accepted  for  the  servant  of  thy  rule. 

Without  almost,  I  am  all  rapturous, 
Since  thus  my  w^ill  was  set 


84  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

To  serve,  Lhou  flower  of  joy,  thine  excellence: 
Nor  ever  seems  it  anything  could  rouse 

A  pain  or  regret, 
.  But  on  thee  dwells  mine  every  thought  and  sense: 
Considering  that  from  thee  all  virtues  spread 

As  from  a  fountain  head, — 
That  in  thy  gift  is  wisdom's  best  avaU^ 

And  honour  without  fail; 
With  whom  each  sovereign  good  dwells  separate^ 
Fulfilling  the  perfection  of  thy  state. 

Lady,  since  I  conceived 
Thy  pleasurable  aspect  in  my  heart, 

My  life  has  been  apart 
In  shining  brightness  and  the  pi  tee  of  trvih  ; 

Which  till  that  time,  good  sooth, 
Groped  among  shadows  in  a  darken'd  plaoe^ 

Where  many  hours  and  days 
It  hardly  ever  had  remember'd  good. 

But  now  my  servitude 
Is  thine,  and  I  am  full  of  joy  and  rest. 

A  man  from  a  wild  beast 
Thou  madest  me,  since  for  thy  love  I  lired. 

rou  may  think,  perhaps,  a  Greek  knight  would  have  had 
a  lower  estimate  of  women  than  this  Christian  lover.  His 
own  spiritual  subjection  to  them  was  indeed  not  so  absolute; 


OF  queens'  gardens.  85 

but  as  regards  their  own  personal  character,  it  was  only 
because  you  could  not  have  followed  me  so  easily,  that  I 
did  not  take  the  Greek  women  instead  of  Shakespeare's; 
and  instance,  for  chief  ideal  types  of  human  beauty  and 
faith,  the  simple  mother's  and  wife's  heart  of  Andromache; 
the  divine,  yet  rejected  wisdom  of  Cassandra;  the  playful 
kindness  and  simple  princess-life  of  happy  Nausicaa;  the 
housewifely  calm  of  that  of  Penelope,  with  its  watch  upon 
the  sea ;  the  ever  patient,  fearless,  hopelessly  devoted  piety 
of  the  sister,  and  daughter,  in  Antigone ;  the  bowing  down 
of  Iphigenia,  lamb-like  and  silent ;  and,  finally,  the  expecta- 
tion  of  the  resurrection,  made  clear  to  the  soul  of  the 
Greeks  in  the  return  from  her  grave  of  that  Alcestis,  who, 
to  save  her  husband,  had  passed  calmly  through  the  bitterness 
of  death. 

Now  I  could  multiply  witness  upon  witness  of  this  kind 
upon  you  if  I  had  time.  I  would  take  Chaucer,  and  show 
you  why  he  wrote  a  Legend  of  Good  Women;  but  no 
Legend  of  Good  Men.  I  would  take  Spenser,  and  show 
you  how  all  his  fairy  knights  are  sometimes  deceived  and 
sometimes  vanquished ;  but  the  soul  of  Una  is  never 
darkened,  and  the  spear  of  Britomart  is  never  broken. 
Nay,  I  could  go  back  into  the  mythical  teaching  of  the 
most  ancient  times,  and  show  you  how  the  great  people, — • 
by  one  of  whose  princesses  it  was  appointed  that  the  Law* 


86  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

giver  of  all  the  earth  should  be  educated,  rather  than  by 
his  own  kindred ; — how  that  great  Egyptian  people,  wisest 
then  of  nations,  gave  to  their  Spirit  of  Wisdom  the  form 
:)f  a  woman  ;  and  into  her  hand,  for  a  symbol,  the  weaver's 
buttle :  and  how  the  name  and  the  form  of  that  spirit, 
adopted,  believed,  and  obeyed  by  the  Greeks,  became  that 
Athena  of  the  olive-helm,  and  cloudy  shield,  to  whose  faith 
you  owe,  down  to  this  date,  whatever  you  hold  most  pre- 
cious in  art,  in  literature,  or  in  types  of  national  vir- 
tue. 

But  I  will  not  wander  into  this  distant  and  mythical 
element ;  I  will  only  ask  you  to  give  its  legitimate  value 
to  the  testimony  of  these  great  poets  and  men  of  the  world, 
— consistent  as  you  see  it  is  on  this  head.  I  will  ask  you 
whether  it  can  be  supposed  that  these  men,  in  the  main 
work  of  their  lives,  are  amusing  themselves  with  a  fictitious 
and  idle  view  of  the  relations  between  man  and  woman  ; — 
nay,  worse  than  fictitious  or  idle ;  for  a  thing  may  be 
imaginary,  yet  desirable,  if  it  were  possible ;  but  this,  their 
ideal  of  women,  is,  according  to  our  common  idea  of  the 
marriage  relation,  wholly  undesirable.  The  woman,  we 
ay,  is  not  to  guide,  nor  even  to  think,  for  herself.  The 
man  is  always  to  be  the  wiser ;  he  is  to  be  the  thinker,  the 
ruler,  the  superior  in  knowledge  and  discretion,  as  in  power 
Is  it  not  somewhat  important  to  make  up  our  minds  on  this 


'  OF  queens'  gardens.  87 

matter  ?  Are  all  these  great  men  mistaken,  or  are  we  1 
Are  Shakespeare  and  ^schylus,  Dante  and  Homer,  mere!} 
dressing  dolls  for  us ;  or,  worse  than  dolls,  unnatural  visions, 
the  realization  of  which,  were  it  possible,  would  bring 
anarchy  into  all  households  and  ruin  into  all  affections  ? 
Kay,  if  you  could  suppose  this,  take  lastly  the  evidence 
of  facts,  given  by  the  human  heart  itself.  In  all  Christian 
ages  which  have  been  remarkable  for  their  purity  or  pro- 
gress, there  has  been  absolute  yielding  of  obedient  devo- 
tion, by  the  lover,  to  his  mistress.  I  say  obedient — not 
merely  enthusiastic  and  worshipping  in  imagination,  but 
entirely  subject,  receiving  from  the  beloved  woman,  how- 
ever young,  not  only  the  encouragement,  the  praise,  and 
the  reward  of  all  toil,  but,  so  far  as  any  choice  is  open,  or 
any  question  difficult  of  decision,  the  direction  of  all  toil. 
That  chivalry,  to  the  abuse  and  dishonour  of  which  are 
attributable  primarily  whatever  is  cruel  in  war,  unjust  in 
peace,  or  corrupt  and  ignoble  in  domestic  relations;  and 
to  the  original  purity  and  power  of  which  we  owe  the 
defence  alike  of  faith,  of  law,  and  of  love ; — that  chivalry, 
1  say,  in  its  very  first  conception  of  honourable  life,  assumes 
the  subjection  of  the  young  knight  to  the  command — shoulQ 
it  even  be  the  command  in  caprice — of  his  lady.  It  assumes 
this,  because  its  masters  knew  that  the  first  and  necessary 
impulse  of  every  truly  taught   and  knightly  heart  is  this 


88  SESAME   AND   LILIES, 

of  blind  service  to  its  lady  :  that  where  that  true  faith  and 
ca])tivity  are  not,  all  wayward  and  wicked  passion  must  be  ; 
and  that  in  this  rapturous  obedience  to  the  single  love  of 
hifi  youth,  is  the  sanctification  of  all  man's  strength,  and 
the  continuance  of  all  his  purposes.  And  this,  not  because 
such  obedience  would  be  safe,  or  honourable,  were  it  ever 
rendered  to  the  unworthy;  but  because  it  ought  to  be 
impossible  for  every  noble  youth — it  is  impossible  for  every 
one  rightly  trained — to  love  any  one  whose  gentle  counsel 
he  cannot  trust,  or  whose  prayerful  command  he  can  hesitate 
to  obey. 

I  do  not  insist  by  any  farther  argument  on  this,  for  I 
think  it  should  commend  itself  at  once  to  your  knowledge 
of  what  has  been  and  to  your  feeling  of  what  should  be. 
You  cannot  think  that  the  buckling  on  of  the  knight's 
armour  by  his  lady's  hand  was  a  mere  caprice  of  romantic 
fashion.  It  is  the  type  of  an  eternal  truth — that  the  soul's 
aimour  is  never  well  set  to  the  heart  unless  a  woman's 
hand  has  braced  it ;  and  it  is  only  when  she  braces  it  loosely 
that  the  honour  of  manhood  fails.  Know  you  not  those 
lovely  lines — ^I  would  they  w^ere  learned  by  all  youthfnl 
ladies  of  England  : — 

"  Ah  wasteful  woman  I    slie  who  may 
On  her  sweet  self  set  her  own  price, 
Knowing  he  cannot  choose  but  pay— 


OF  queens'  GAEDE^TS.  89 

How  has  she  cheapen'd  Paradise  1 
How  given  for  nought  her  priceless  giffc, 
How  spoiled  the  bread  and  spill'd  the  wine, 
Which,  spent  with  due,  respective  thrift, 
Had  made  brutes  men,  and  men  divine  I "  * 

This  much,  then,  respecting  the  relations  of  lovers  I 
believe  you  will  accept.  But  what  we  too  often  doubt  ii 
the  fitness  of  the  continuance  of  such  a  relation  throughout 
the  whole  of  human  life.  We  think  it  right  in  the  lover 
and  mistress,  not  in  the  husband  and  wife.  That  is  to  say, 
we  think  that  a  reverent  and  tender  duty  is  due  to  one 
whose  affection  we  still  doubt,  and  whose  character  we  aa 
yet  do  but  partially  and  distantly  discern  ;  and  that  this 
reverence  and  duty  are  to  be  withdrawn  when  the  affection 
has  become  wholly  and  limitlessly  our  own,  and  the  charac- 
ter has  been  so  sifted  and  tried  that  we  fear  not  to  entrust 
it  with  the  happiness  of  our  lives.  Do  you  not  see  how 
ignoble  this  is,  as  well  as  how  unreasonable?  Do  you  not 
feel  that  marriage — when  it  is  marriage  at  all, — is  only  the 
seal  which  marks  the  vowed  transition  of  temporary  into 
untiring   service,  and   of  fitful  into  eternal  love "' 

But  how,  you  will  ask,  is  the  idea  of  this  guiding  function 
of  the  woman  reconcileable  with  a  true  wifely  subjection? 
Simply  in  that  it  is  a  guiding^  not  a  detemiining,  functioa 
*  Coventry  Patmore, 


90  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

Let  me  try  to  show  you  briefly  how  these  powers  seem  to  bi 
rightly  distinguishable. 

We  are  foolish,  and  without  excuse  foolish,  in  speaking  of 
the  "superiority"  of  one  sex  to  the  other,  as  if  they  could  be 
compared  in  similar  things.  Each  has  what  the  other  has 
not:  each  completes  the  other,  and  is  completed  by  the 
other :  they  are  in  nothing  alike,  and  the  happiness  and  per- 
fection of  both  depends  on  each  asking  and  receiving  from 
the  other  what  the  other  only  can  give. 

Now  their  sepaiate  characters  are  briefly  these.  The  man's 
power  is  active,  progressive,  defensive.  He  is  eminently  the 
doer,  the  creator,  the  discoverer,  the  defender.  His  intellect 
is  for  speculation  and  invention;  his  energy  for  adventure, 
for  war,  and  for  conquest,  wherever  war  is  just,  wherever 
conquest  necessary.  But  the  woman's  power  is  for  rule,  not 
for  battle, — and  her  intellect  is  not  for  invention  or  creation, 
but  for  sweet  ordering,  arrangement,  and  decision.  She  sees 
the  qualities  of  things,  their  claims  and  their  places.  Her 
great  function  is  Praise :  she  enters  into  no  contest,  but 
infallibly  judges  the  crown  of  contest.  By  her  office,  and 
place,  she  is  protected  from  all  danger  and  temptation.  Tho 
man,  in  his  rough  work  in  open  world,  must  encounter  all 
peril  and  trial : — to  him,  therefore,  the  failure,  the  oflTence, 
the  inevitable  error:  often  he  must  be  wounded,  or  subdued, 
often   misled,   and   always  hardened.     But  he  guards   the 


OF  queens'  gardens.  91 

woman  from  all  this;  within  his  house,  as  ruled  by  her,  unless 
she  herself  has  sought  it,  need  enter  no  danger,  no  tempta- 
tion, no  cause  of  error  or  offence.  This  is  the  true  nature 
of  home — it  is  the  place  of  Peace  ;  the  shelter,  not  only  fron 
all  injury,  but  from  all  terror,  doubt,  and  division.  In  so  far 
as  it  is  not  this,  it  is  not  home  ;  so  far  as  the  anxieties  of  the 
outer  life  penetrate  into  it,  and  the  inconsistently-minded, 
unknown,  unloved,  or  hostile  society  of  the  outer  world  is 
allowed  by  either  husband  or  wife  to  cross  the  threshold,  it 
ceases  to  be  home  ;  it  is  then  only  a  part  of  that  outer  world 
which  you  have  roofed  over,  and  lighted  fire  in.  But  so  far 
us  it  is  a  sacred  place,  a  vestal  temple,  a  temple  of  the  hearth 
watched  over  by  Household  Gods,  before  whose  faces  none 
xnay  come  but  those  whom  they  can  receive  with  love, — so 
far  as  it  is  this,  and  roof  and  fire  are  types  only  of  a  nobler 
shade  and  light, — shade  as  of  the  rock  in  a  weary  land,  and 
light  as  of  the  Pharos  in  the  stormy  sea  ; — so  far  it  vindicates 
the  name,  and  fulfils  the  praise,  of  home. 

And  wherever  a  true  wife  comes,  this  home  is  always 
round  her.  The  stars  only  may  be  over  her  head ;  the  glow^ 
worm  in  the  night-cold  grass  may  be  the  only  fire  at  her 
foo^. :  but  home  is  yet  wherever  she  is ;  and  for  a  noble 
woman  it  stretches  far  round  her,  better  than  ceiled  with 
cedar,  or  painted  with  vermilion,  shedding  its  quiet  light  far, 
for  those  who  else  were  homeless. 


92  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

This,  then,  I  believe  to  be, — will  you  not  admit  it  to  be,— 
the  woman's  true  place  and  power?  But  do  not  you  see 
that  to  fulfil  this,  she  must — as  far  as  one  can  use  such  terms 
of  a  human  creature — be  incapable  of  error  ?  So  far  as  she 
rules,  all  must  be  right,  or  nothing  is.  She  must  be  endur- 
iogly,  incorruptibly  good ;  instinctively,  infallibly  wise — wise, 
not  for  self-development,  but  for  self-renunciation :  wise,  not 
that  she  may  set  herself  above  her  husband,  but  that  she 
may  never  fail  from  his  side  :  wise,  not  with  the  narrowness 
of  insolent  and  loveless  pride,  but  with  the  passionate  gentle- 
ness of  an  infinitely  variable,  because  infinitely  applicable, 
modesty  of  service — ^the  true  changefulness  of  woman.  In 
that  great  sense — "  La  donna  e  mobile,"  not  "  Qual  pitim'  al 
vento;"  no,  nor  yet  "Variable  as  the  shade,  by  the  light 
quivering  aspen  made ;"  but  variable  as  the  light,  manifold  in 
fair  and  serene  division,  that  it  may  take  the  colour  of  all  that 
it  falls  upon,  and  exalt  it. 

II.  I  have  been  trying,  thus  far,  to  show  you  what  should 
be  the  place,  and  what  the  power  of  woman.  Now,  secondly, 
we  ask.  What  kind  of  education  is  to  fit  her  for  these  ? 

And  if  you  indeed  think  this  a  true  conception  of  her  oflice 
and  dignity,  it  will  not  be  diflScult  to  trace  the  course  of 
education  which  would  fit  her  for  the  one,  and  raise  her  to 
the  other. 

The  first  of  our  duties  to  her — no  thoughtful  persons  now 


OF  queens'  gardens.  98 

dc'^abt  this, — is  to  secure  for  her  such  physical  training  and 
iotercise  as  may  confirm  her  health,  and  perfect  her  beauty 
the  highest  refinement  of  that  beauty  being  unattainable 
without  splendour  of  activity  and  of  delicate  strength.  To 
perfect  her  beauty,  I  say,  and  increase  its  power ;  it  cannot 
be  too  powerful,  nor  shed  its  sacred  light  too  far:  only 
remember  that  all  physical  freedom  is  vain  to  produce  beauty 
without  a  corresponding  freedom  of  heart.  There  are  two 
passages  of  that  poet  who  is  distinguished,  it  seems  to  me, 
from  all  others — not  by  power,  but  by  exquisite  rightnesa — 
which  point  you  to  the  source,  and  describe  to  you,  in  a  few 
syllables,  the  completion  of  womanly  beauty.  I  will  read  the 
introductory  stanzas,  but  the  last  is  the  one  I  wish  you 
specially  to  notice: 

'     "  Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  a  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown. 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  lady  of  my  own. 

**  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse;  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
111  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 


94  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

rihall  feel  an  overseeing  power 
To  kindle,  or  restrain. 

"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her,  for  her  the  willow  bend ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm, 
3-race  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

'  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, — 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell. 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give, 
y  While  she  and  I  together  live, 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

"  Vital  feelings  of  delight,"  observe.  There  are  deadly 
feelings  of  delight ;  but  the  natural  ones  are  vital,  necessary 
to  very  life. 

And  they  must  be  feelings  of  delight,  if  they  are  to  be 
vital.  Do  not  think  you  can  make  a  girl  lovely,  if  you  do  not 
make  her  happy.  There  is  not  one  restraint  you  put  on 
good  girl's  nature — ^there  is  not  one  check  you  give  to  her 
inslincts  of  affection  or  of  effort — which  will  not  be  indelibly 
written  on  her  features,  with  a  hardness  which  is  all  the  more 
painful    because    it    takes    away  the  brightness    from    the 


OF  queens'  gardens.  95 

eyes  of  innocence,  and  the   cliarm  from  the  brow  of  vir 
tue. 

This  for  the  means :  now  note  the  end.  Take  from  the 
same  poet,  in  two  lines,  a  perfect  description  of  womanly 
beauty — 

"  A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet." 

The  perfect  loveliness  of  a  woman's  countenance  can  only 
consist  in  that  majestic  peace,  which  is  founded  in  the 
memory  of  happy  and  useful  years, — ^fuU  of  sweet  records ; 
and  from  the  joining  of  this  with  that  yet  more  majestic 
childishness,  which  is  still  full  of  change  and  promise; — 
opening  always — ^modest  at  once,  and  bright,  with  hope  of 
better  things  to  be  won,  and  to  be  bestowed.  There  is  no 
old  age  where  there  is  still  that  promise — it  is  eternal  youth. 

Thus,  then,  you  have  first  to  mould  her  physical  frame, 
and  then,  as  the  strength  she  gains  will  permit  you,  to  fill 
and  temper  her  mind  with  all  knowledge  and  thoughts  which 
tend  to  confirm  its  natural  instincts  of  justice,  and  refine  its 
natural  tact  of  love. 

All  such  knowledge  should  be  given  her  as  may  enable  hef 
to  understand,  and  even  to  aid,  the  work  of  men  :  and  yet  it 
should  be  given,  not  as  knowledge, — not  as  if  it  were,  or 
could  be,  for  her  an  object  to  know ;  but  only  to  feel,  and  to 


96  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

judge.  It  is  of  no  moment,  as  a  matter  of  pride  or  perfect/ 
ness  in  herself,  wliether  she  knows  many  languages  or  one 
but  it  is  of  the  utmost,  that  she  should  be  able  to  show 
kindness  to  a  stranger,  and  to  understand  the  sweetness  of  a 
stranger's  tongue.  It  is  of  no  moment  to  her  own  worth  or 
dignity  that  she  should  be  acquainted  with  this  science  or 
that ;  but  it  is  of  the  highest  that  she  should  be  trained  in 
habits  of  accurate  thought ;  that  she  should  understand  the 
meaning,  the  inevitableness,  and  the  loveliness  of  natural 
laws,  and  follow  at  least  some  one  path  of  scientific  attain- 
ment, as  far  as  to  the  threshold  of  that  bitter  Valley  of  Humi- 
liation, into  which  only  the  wisest  and  bravest  of  men  can 
descend,  owning  themselves  for  ever  children,  gathering  peb- 
bles on  a  boundless  shore.  It  is  of  little  consequence  how 
many  positions  of  cities  she  knows,  or  how  many  dates  of 
events,  or  how  many  names  of  celebrated  persons — it  is  not 
the  object  of  education  to  turn  a  woman  into  a  dictionary ; 
but  it  is  deeply  necessary  that  she  should  be  taught  to  enter 
with  her  whole  personality  into  the  history  she  reads ;  to 
picture  the  passages  of  it  vitally  in  her  own  bright  imagina- 
tion ;  to  apprehend,  with  her  fine  instincts,  the  pathetic  dr 
curastances  and  dramatic  relations,  which  the  historian  to< 
often  only  eclipses  by  his  reasoning,  and  disconnects  by  hji 
arrangement :  it  is  for  her  to  trace  the  hidden  equities  of 
divine  reward,  and  catch  sight,  through  the  darkness,  of  the 


OF  queens'  gardens.  97 

tateful  threads  of  woveD  fire  that  connect  error  with  its  retri« 
bution.  But,  chiefly  of  all,  she  is  to  be  taught  to  extend  the 
limits  of  her  sympathy  with  respect  to  that  history  which  is 
being  for  ever  determined,  as  the  moments  pass  in  which  she 
draws  her  peaceful  breath ;  and  to  the  contemporary  cala 
raity  which,  were  it  but  rightly  mourned  by  her,  would  recur 
no  more  hereafter.  She  is  to  exercise  herself  in  imagining 
what  would  be  the  effects  upon  her  mind  and  conduct,  if  she 
were  daily  brought  into  the  presence  of  the  suffering  which 
is  not  the  less  real  because  shut  from  her  sight.  She  is  to  be 
taught  somewhat  to  understand  the  nothingness  of  the  pro- 
portion which  that  little  woi-ld  in  which  she  lives  and  loves, 
bears  to  the  world  in  which  God  lives  and  loves ; — and 
solemnly  she  is  to  be  taught  to  strive  that  her  thoughts  of 
piety  may  not  be  feeble  in  proportion  to  the  number  they 
embrace,  nor  her  prayer  more  languid  than  it  is  for  the  mo- 
mentary relief  from  pain  of  her  husband  or  her  child,  when 
it  is  uttered  for  the  multitudes  of  those  who  have  none  to 
love  them, — and  is  "for  all  who  are  desolate  and  oppressed." 
Thus  far,  I  think,  I  have  had  your  concurrence  ;  perhaps 
you  will  not  be  with  me  in  what  I  believe  is  most  needful  for 
me  to  say.  There  is  one  dangerous  science  for  women — one 
which  let  them  indeed  beware  how  they  profanely  touch — 
that  of  theology.    Strange,  and  miserably  strange,  that  while 

they  are  modest  enough  to  doubt  their  powers,  and  pause  at 

5 


98  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

the  threshold  of  sciences  where  every  step  is  demonstrahli 
and  sure,  they  will  plunge  headlong,  and  without  one  thought 
of  incompetency,  into  that  science  in  which  the  greatest  men 
have  trembled,  and  the  wisest  erred.  Strange,  that  they  will 
complacently  and  pridefully  bind  up  whatever  vice  or  folly 
there  is  in  them,  whatever  arrogance,  petulance,  or  blind 
incomprehensiveness,  into  one  bitter  bundle  of  consecrated 
myrrh.  Strange,  in  creatures  born  to  be  Love  visible,  that 
where  they  can  know  least,  they  will  condemn  first,  and  think 
to  recommend  themselves  to  their  Master  by  scrambling  up 
the  steps  of  His  judgment-throne,  to  divide  it  witb  Him. 
Most  strange,  that  they  should  think  they  were  led  by  the 
Spirit  of  the  Comforter  into  habits  of  mind  which  have 
become  in  them  the  unmixed  elements  of  home  discomfort ; 
and  that  they  dare  to  turn  the  Household  Gods  of  Christi- 
anity into  ugly  idols  of  their  own — spiritual  dolls,  for  them 
to  dress  according  to  their  caprice ;  and  fiom  which  their 
husbands  must  turn  away  in  grieved  contempt,  lest  they 
should  be  shrieked  at  for  breaking  them. 

I  believe,  then,  with  this  exception,  that  a  girl's  education 
Bliould  be  nearly,  in  its  course  and  material  of  study,  the 
game  as  a  boy's;  but  quite  differently  directed.  A  woman, 
in  any  rank  of  life,  ought  to  know  whatever  her  husband  ia 
hkelj  to  know,  but  to  know  it  in  a  different  way.  His  com 
mand  of  it  should  be  foundational  and  progressive,  hcrSj 


OF   QUEENS     GAKDENS.  99 

general  and  uccompHshed  for  daily  and  helpful  use.  Not  but 
that  it  would  often  be  wiser  in  men  to  learn  things  in  a 
womanly  sort  of  way,  for  present  use,  and  to  seek  for  the 
discipline  and  training  of  tlieir  mental  powers  in  such 
branches  of  study  as  will  be  afterwards  fittest  for  social 
service ;  but,  speaking  broadly,  a  man  ought  to  know  any 
language  or  science  he  learns,  thoroughly,  while  a  woman 
ought  to  know  the  same  language,  or  science,  only  so  far  as 
may  enable  her  to  sympathise  in  her  husband's  pleasures, 
and  in  those  of  bis  best  friends. 

Yet,  observe,  with  exquisite  accuracy  as  far  as  she  reaches. 
There  is  a  wide  difference  between  elementary  knowledge 
and  superficial  knowledge — between  a  firm  beginning,  and  a 
feeble  smattering.  A  woman  may  always  help  her  husband 
by  what  she  knows,  however  little  ;  by  what  she  half-knows, 
or  mis-knows,  she  will  only  teaze  him. 

And,  indeed,  if  there  were  to  be  any  difference  between  a 
girl's  education  and  a  boy's,  I  should  say  that  of  the  two  the 
girl  should  be  earlier  led,  as  her  uitellect  ripens  faster,  into 
deep  and  serious  subjects ;  and  that  her  range  of  literature 
ghould  be,  not  more,  but  less  frivolous,  calculated  to  add  the 
qualities  of  patience  and  seriousness  to  her  natural  poignancy 
of  thought  and  quickness  of  wit ;  and  also  to  keep  her  in  a 
lofty  and  pure  element  of  thought.  I  enter  not  now  into  any 
question  of  choice  of  books  ;  only  be  sure  that  her  books  are 


100  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

not  heaped  up  in  her  lap  as  they  fall  out  of  the  package  of 
the  circulating  library,  wet  with  the  last  and  lightest  spray  of 
the  fountain  of  folly. 

Or  even  of  the  fountain  of  wit ;  for  with  respect  to  that 
8ore  temptation  of  novel-reading,  it  is  not  the  badness  of  a 
novel  that  we  should  dread,  but  its  over-wrought  interest 
The  weakest  romance  is  not  so  stupifying  as  the  lower  forms 
of  religious  exciting  literature,  and  the  worst  romance  is 
not  so  corrupting  as  false  liistory,  false  philosophy,  or  false 
political  essays.  But  the  best  romance  becomes  dangerous, 
if,  by  its  excitement,  it  renders  the  ordinary  course  of  life 
uninteresting,  and  increases  the  morbid  thirst  for  useless 
acquaintance  with  scenes  in  which  we  shall  never  be  called 
upon  to  act. 

I  speak  therefore  of  good  novels  only ;  and  our  modern 
literature  is  particularly  rich  in  types  of  such.  Well  read, 
indeed,  these  books  have  serious  use,  being  nothing  less  than 
treatises  on  moral  anatomy  and  chemistry ;  studies  of  human 
nature  in  the  elements  of  it.  But  I  attach  little  weight  to 
this  function:  they  are  hardly  ever  read  with  earnestness 
cnougli  to  pei-mit  them  to  fulfil  it.  The  utmost  they  usually 
do  is  to  enlarge  somewhat  the  charity  of  a  kind  reader,  or  the 
hitterness  of  a  malicious  one ;  for  each  will  gather,  from  the 
novel,  food  for  her  own  disposition.  Those  who  are  naturally 
proud  and  envious  will  learn  from  Thackeray  to   despisa 


OF  queens'  gardens.  10] 

Humanity;  those  who  are  naturally  gentle,  to  pity  it;  those 
who  are  naturally  shallow,  to  laugh  at  it.  So,  also,  thera 
might  be  a  serviceable  power  in  novels  to  bring  before  us,  in 
vividness,  a  human  truth  which  we  had  before  dimly  cod 
ceived ;  but  the  temptation  to  picturesqueness  of  statement 
is  so  great,  that  often  the  best  writers  of  fiction  cannot  resist 
it;  and  our  views  are  rendered  so  violent  and  one-sided,  that 
their  vitality  is  rather  a  harm  than  good. 

Without,  however,  venturing  here  on  any  attempt  at 
decision  how  much  novel-reading  should  be  allowed,  let  me 
at  least  clearly  assert  this,  that  whether  novels,  or  poetry,  or 
history  be  read,  they  should  be  chosen,  not  for  what  is  out 
of  them,  but  for  what  is  in  them.  The  chance  and  scattered 
e\al  that  may  here  and  there  haunt,  or  hide  itself  in,  a 
powerful  book,  never  does  any  harm  to  a  noble  girl ;  but  the 
emptiness  of  an  author  oppresses  her,  and  his  amiable  folly 
degrades  her.  And  if  she  can  have  access  to  a  good  library 
of  old  and  classical  books,  there  need  be  no  choosing  at  all. 
Keep  the  modern  magazine  and  novel  out  of  your  girl's  way : 
turn  her  loose  into  the  old  library  every  wet  day,  and  let  her 
alone.  She  will  find  what  is  good  for  her ;  you  cannot :  for 
there  is  just  this  difference  between  the  making  of  a  girl's 
character  and  a  boy's — you  may  chisel  a  boy  into  shnpe.  as 
you  would  a  rock,  or  hammer  him  into  it,  if  he  be  of  a  better 
kind,   as  you  would   a  piece  of  bronze.     But   you  cannoi 


102  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

nammer  a  girl  into  anything.  She  grows  as  a  flower  does,— 
she  will  wither  without  sun ;  she  will  decay  in  her  sheath,  as 
the  narcissus  does,  if  you  do  not  give  her  air  enough ;  she 
may  fall,  and  defile  her  head  in  dust,  if  you  leave  her  without 
lielp  at  some  moments  of  her  life;  but  you  cannot  fettei 
her ;  she  must  take  her  own  fair  form  and  way,  if  she  take 
any,  and  in  mind  as  in  body,  must  have  always 

"  Her  household  motions  light  and  free 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty." 

Let  her  loose  in  the  library,  I  say,  as  you  do  a  fawn 
in  a  field.  It  knows  the  bad  weeds  twenty  times  better 
than  you ;  and  the  good  ones  too,  and  will  eat  some  bitter 
and  prickly  ones,  good  for  it,  which  you  had  not  the  slightest 
thought  were  good. 

Then,  in  art,  keep  the  finest  models  before  her,  and  let  her 
practice  in  all  accomplishments  be  accurate  and  thorough, 
BO  as  to  enable  her  to  understand  more  than  she  accomplishes, 
I  say  the  finest  models — that  is  to  say,  the  truest,  simplest, 
nsefullest  Note  those  epithets  ;  they  will  range  through  all 
fche  arts.  Try  them  in  music,  where  you  might  think  them 
tlie  leasi  applicable.  I  say  the  truest,  that  in  which  the  notes 
most  closely  and  faithfully  express  the  meaning  of  the  words, 
or  the  character  of  intended  emotion ;  again,  the  simplest, 
that  in  which  the  meaning  and  melody  are  attained  with  the 


OF  queers'  gardens.  103 

fewest  and  most  significant  notes  possible ;  and,  finally,  tlie 
usefullest,  that  music  which  makes  the  best  words  most 
beautiful,  which  enchants  them  in  our  memories  each  with  its 
own  glory  of  sound,  and  which  applies  them  closest  to  the 
heart  at  the  moment  we  need  them. 

And  not  only  in  the  material  and  in  the  course,  but  yet 
more  earnestly  in  the  spirit  of  it,  let  a  girl's  education  be  aa 
serious  as  a  boy's.  You  bring  up  your  girls  as  if  they  were 
meant  for  sideboard  ornaments,  and  then  complain  of  their 
fiivolity.  Give  them  the  same  advantages  that  you  give 
their  brothers — appeal  to  the  same  grand  instincts  of  virtue 
in  them ;  teach  them  also  that  courage  and  truth  are  the 
pillars  of  their  being:  do  you  think  that  they  would  not 
answer  that  appeal,  brave  and  true  as  they  are  even  now, 
when  you  know  that  there  is  hardly  a  girl's  school  in  this 
Christian  kingdom  where  the  children's  courage  or  sincerity 
would  be  thought  of  half  so  much  importance  as  their  way 
of  coming  in  at  a  door ;  and  when  the  whole  system  of 
society,  as  respects  the  mode  of  establishing  them  in  life,  is 
one  rotten  plague  of  cowardice  and  imposture — cowardice,  in 
not  daring  to  let  them  live,  or  love,  except  as  their  neigh 
hours  choose ;  and  imposture,  in  bringing,  for  the  purpose  of 
our  own  pride,  the  full  glow  of  the  world's  worst  vanity  upon 
a  girl's  eyes,  at  the  very  period  when  the  whole  happiness 
of  her  future  existence  depends  upon  her  remaining  undazzled  ? 


104  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

And  give  them,  lastly,  not  only  noble  teachings,  but  noble 
teachers.  You  consider  somewhat,  before  you  send  your 
boy  to  school,  what  kind  of  a  man  the  master  is; — whatso- 
ever  kind  of  man  he  is,  you  at  least  give  him  full  authority 
over  your  son,  and  show  some  respect  to  him  yourself;  if  no 
comes  to  dine  with  you,  you  do  not  put  him  at  a  side  table ; 
you  know  also  that,  at  his  college,  your  child's  immediate 
tutor  will  be  under  the  direction  of  some  still  higher  tutor,  foi 
whom  you  have  absolute  reverence.  You  do  not  treat  the  Dean 
of  Christ  Church  or  the  Master  of  Trinity  as  your  inferiors. 

But  what  teachers  do  you  give  your  girls,  and  what  reve 
rence  do  you  show  to  the  teachers  you  have  chosen  ?  Is  a 
girl  likely  to  think  her  own  conduct,  or  her  own  intellect,  of 
much  importance,  when  you  trust  the  entire  formation  of 
her  character,  moral  and  intellectual,  to  a  person  whom  you 
let  your  servants  treat  with  less  respect  than  they  do  your 
housekeeper  (as  if  the  soul  of  your  child  were  a  less  charge 
than  jams  and  groceries),  and  whom  you  yourself  think  you 
confer  an  honour  upon  by  letting  her  sometimes  sit  in  the 
drawing-room  in  the  evening? 

Thus,  then,  of  literature   as   her  help,  and  thus   of  art. 
There  is  one  more  help  which  she  cannot  do  without — on 
which,  alone,  has  sometimes  done  more  than  all  other  in- 
fluences besides, — the  help  of  wild  and  fair  nature.    Heai 
tide  of  the  education  of  Joan  of  Arc : 


OF  queens'  gardens.  105 

*'  The  education  of  this  poor  girl  was  mean  according  to  the  present 
standard;  was  ineflably  grand,  according  to  a  purer  philosophic  stand- 
aid;  and  only  not  good  for  our  age,  because  for  us  it  would  be  unat* 
tain  able.  *  *  * 

*'  Next  after  her  spiritual  advantages,  she  owed  most  to  the  advan 
tages  of  her  situation.  The  fountain  of  Domr6my  was  on  the  biink 
of  a  boundless  forest ;  and  it  was  haunted  to  that  degree  by  fairies, 
that  the  parish  priest  {curS)  was  obliged  to  read  mass  there  once  a 
year,  in  order  to  keep  them  in  any  decent  bounds.  *  *  * 

"  But  the  forests  of  Domr^my — those  were  the  glories  of  the  land  , 
for  in  them  abode  mysterious  powers  and  ancient  secrets  that  towered 
into  tragic  strength.  *  Abbeys  there  were,  and  abbey  windows,' — 
Mike  Moorish  temples  of  the  Hindoos,'  that  exercised  even  princely 
power  both  in  Touraine  and  in  the  German  Diets.  These  had  their 
sweet  bells  that  pierced  the  forests  for  many  a  league  at  matins  or 
vespers,  and  each  its  own  dreamy  legend.  Few  enough,  and  scat- 
tered enough,  were  these  abbeys,  so  as  in  no  degree  to  disturb  the 
deep  solitude  of  the  region ;  yet  many  enough  to  spread  a  network 
or  awning  of  Christian  sanctity  over  what  else  might  have  seemed  a 
heathen  wilderness."  * 

Now,  you  cannot,  indeed,  have  here  in  England,  woods 

ighteen  miles  deep  to  the  centre ;  but  you  can,  perliaps. 

keep  a  fairy  or  two  for  your  children  yet,  if  you  wish  to  keep 

them.     But  c?o  you  wish  it  ?     Suppose  you  had  each,  at  the 

*  "Joan  of  Arc:  in  reference  to  M.  MicheleVs  History  of  France."    Df 

Quiuoey's  Works.    Vol  Hi.  p.  217. 


•106  SESAME  AND   LILIES. 

back  of  your  houses,  a  garden,  large  enough  for  your  chil 
dren  to  play  in,  with  just  as  much  lawn  as  would  give  them 
oom  to  run, — no  more — and  that  you  could  not  change  your 
abode  ;  but  that,  if  you  chose,  you  could  double  your  income, 
or  quadruple  it,  by  digging  a  coal  shaft  in  the  middle  of 
the  lawn,  and  turning  the  flower-beds  into  heaps  of  coke 
Would  you  do  it  ?  I  think  not.  I  can  tell  you,  you  would 
be  wrong  if  you  did,  though  it  gave  you  income  sixty-fold 
instead  of  four-fold. 

Yet  this  is  what  you  are  doing  with  all  England.  The 
whole  country  is  but  a  little  garden,  not  more  than  enough 
for  your  children  to  run  on  the  lawns  of,  if  you  would  let 
them  aU  run  there.  And  this  little  garden  you  will  turn  into 
furnace-ground,  and  fill  with  heaps  of  cinders,  if  you  can; 
and  those  children  of  yours,  not  you,  will  suffer  for  it.  For 
the  fairies  will  not  be  all  banished ;  there  are  fairies  of  the 
fuiTiace  as  of  the  wood,  and  their  first  gifts  seem  to  be 
"  shai*p  arrows  of  the  mighty ;"  but  their  last  gifts  are  "  coals 
of  juniper." 

And  yet  I  cannot — though  there  is  no  part  of  my  subject 
that  I  feel  more — press  this  upon  you  ;  for  we  made  so  little 
tise  of  the  power  of  nature  while  we  had  it  that  we  shall 
Iiardly  feel  what  we  have  lost.  Just  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Mersey  you  have  your  Snowdon,  and  your  Meuai  Straits, 
Olid  that  mighty  granite  rock  beyond  the  moors  of  Anglesc^a, 


OF  queens'  gardens.  107 

splendid  in  its  heathery  crest,  and  foot  planted  in  the  deep 
sea,  once  thought  of  as  sacred — a  divine  promontory,  looking 
westward;  the  Holy  Head  or  Headland,  still  not  without 
awe  when  its  red  light  glares  first  through  storm.  Theso 
are  the  hills,  and  these  the  bays  and  blue  inlets,  which, 
among  the  Greeks,  would  have  been  always  loved,  always 
fateful  in  influence  on  the  national  mind.  That  Snowdon  is 
your  Parnassus  ;  but  where  are  its  Muses  ?  That  Holyhead 
mountain  is  your  Island  of  ^gina,  but  where  is  its  Temple 
to  Minerva? 

Shall  I  read  you  what  the  Christian  Minerva  had  achieved 
under  the  shadow  of  our  Parnassus,  up  to  the  year  1848  ? — • 
Here  is  a  little  account  of  a  Welsh  school,  from  page  261  of 
the  Report  on  Wales,  published  by  the  Committee  of  Coun- 
cil on  Education.  This  is  a  school  close  to  a  town  contain- 
ing 5,000  persons : — 

"  I  then  called  up  a  larger  class,  most  of  whom  had  recently  comt- 
to  the  school.  Three  girls  repeatedly  declared  they  had  never  heard 
of  Christ,  and  two  that  they  had  never  heard  of  God.  Two  out  of  six 
thought  Christ  was  on  earth  now  ('they  might  have  had  a  worse 
thought,  perhaps'),  three  knew  nothing  about  the  crucifixion.  Four 
out  of  seven  did  not  know  the  name.3  of  the  months,  nor  the  number 
of  days  in  a  year.  They  had  no  notion  of  addition  beyond  two  and 
two,  or  three  and  three;  their  minds  were  perfect  blanks." 

Oh  ye  women  of  England !  from  the  Princess  of  that  Wales 


108  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

to  the  simplest  of  you,  do  not  tliink  your  own  children  cat 
be  brought  into  their  true  fold  of  rest  while  these  are  scat- 
tered on  the  hills,  as  sheep  having  no  shepherd.  And  do  not 
tliink  your  daughters  can  be  trained  to  the  truth  of  their 
own  human  beauty,  while  the  pleasant  places,  which  God 
made  at  once  for  their  school-room  and  their  play-ground, 
lie  desolate  and  defiled.  You  cannot  baptize  them  rightly 
in  those  inch-deep  fonts  of  yours,  unless  you  baptize  them 
also  in  the  sweet  waters  which  the  great  Lawgiver  strikes 
forth  for  ever  from  the  rocks  of  your  native  land — waters 
which  a  Pagan  would  have  worshipped  in  their  purity,  and 
you  only  worship  with  pollution.  You  cannot  lead  your  chil- 
dren faithfully  to  those  narrow  axe-hewn  church  altars  of 
yours,  while  the  dark  azure  altars  in  heaven — the  mountains 
that  sustain  your  island  throne, — mountains  on  which  a 
Pagan  would  have  seen  the  powers  of  heaven  rest  in  every 
wreathed  cloud — ^remain  for  you  without  inscription ;  altars 
built,  not  to,  but  by,  an  Unknown  God. 

III.  Thus  far,  then,  of  the  nature,  thus  far  of  the  teaching, 
of  woman,  and  thus  of  her  household  office,  and  queenliness. 
We  come  now  to  our  last,  our  widest  question, — "What  is 
her  queenly  office  with  respect  to  the  state  ? 

Generally,  we  are  under  an  impression  that  a  man's  dut'ea 
are  publi-j,  and  a  woman's  private.  But  this  Is  not  altogether 
no.    A  man  has  a  personal  work  or  duty,  relating  to  his  own 


OF  queens'  gardens.  109 

home,  and  a  piiLHc  work  or  duty,  which  is  the  expanaiou  of 
the  other,  relating  to  the  state.  So  a  woman  has  a  porsonal 
work  or  duty,  relating  to  her  own  home,  and  a  public  work 
and  duty,  which  is  also  the  expansion  of  that. 

Now  the  man's  work  for  his  own  home  is,  as  has  been 
said,  to  secure  its  maintenance,  progress,  and  defence;  the 
woman's  to  secure  its  order,  comfort,  and  loveliness. 

Expand  both  these  functions.  The  man's  duty  as  a  mem 
ber  of  a  commonwealth,  is  to  assist  in  the  maintenance,  in 
the  advance,  in  the  defence  of  the  state.  The  woman's  duty, 
as  a  member  of  the  commonwealth,  is  to  assist  in  the  order 
iug,  in  the  comforting,  and  in  the  beautiful  adornment  of  the 
state. 

What  the  man  is  at  his  own  gate,  defending  it,  if  need  be, 
against  insult  and  spoil,  that  also,  not  in  a  less,  but  in  a  more 
devoted  measure,  he  is  to  be  at  the  gate  of  his  country, 
leaving  his  home,  if  need  be,  even  to  the  spoiler,  to  do  his 
more  incumbent  work  there. 

And,  in  like  manner,  what  the  woman  is  to  be  within  her 
gates,  as  the  centre  of  order,  the  balm  of  distress,  and  the 
mirror  of  beauty ;  that  she  is  also  to  be  without  her  gates, 
where  order  is  more  difficult,  distress  more  imminent,  love- 
liness more  rare. 

And  as  within  the  human  heart  there  is  always  set  an 
iustiuct  for  all  its  real  duties, — an  instinct  which  you  cannot 


110  SESAME   AND    LILIES. 

quench,  but  only  warp  and  corrupt  if  you  withdraw  it  from 
its  true  purpose; — as  there  is  ihe  intense  instinct  of  love, 
which,  rightly  disciplined,  maintains  all  the  sanctities  of  life 
^nd,  misdirected,  undermines  them;  and  must  do  either  the 
)ne  or  the  other ;  so  there  is  in  the  human  heart  an  inextin 
guishable  instinct,  the  love  of  power,  which,  rightly  directed, 
maintains  all  the  majesty  of  law  and  life,  and  misdirected, 
wrecks  them. 

Deep  rooted  in  the  innermost  life  of  the  heart  of  man,  and 
of  the  heart  of  woman,  God  set  it  there,  and  God  keepg 
it  there.  Vainly,  as  falsely,  you  blame  or  rebuke  the  desire 
of  power  I — For  Heaven's  sake,  and  for  Man's  sake,  desire  it 
all  you  can.  But  what  power?  That  is  all  the  question. 
Power  to  destroy  ?  the  lion's  limb,  and  the  dragon's  breath  ? 
Not  so.  Power  to  heal,  to  redeem,  to  guide  and  to  guard. 
Power  of  the  sceptre  and  shield ;  the  power  of  the  royal 
hand  that  heals  in  touching, — that  binds  the  fiend  and  looses 
the  captive ;  the  throne  that  is  founded  on  the  rock  of 
Justice,  and  descended  from  only  by  steps  of  mercy.  Will 
3'ou  not  covet  such  power  as  this,  and  seek  such  throne  aa 
hifii,  and  be  no  more  housewives,  but  queens  ? 

It  is  now  long  since  the  women  of  England  arrogated, 
nuiversally,  a  title  which  once  belonged  to  nobility  only , 
and,  having  once  been  in  the  habit  of  accepting  the  simple 
^itle  of  gentlewoman,  as  correspondent  to  that  of  gentlcmaiv. 


OF  queens'  gardens.  Ill 

insisted  on  tlie  privilege  of  assuming  the  title  of  "  Lady,"  * 
which  properly  corresponds  only  to  the  title  of  "  Lord." 

I  do  not  blame  them  for  this ;  but  only  for  their  narrow 
motive  in  this.  I  would  have  them  desire  and  claim  th 
title  of  Lady,  provided  they  claim,  not  merely  the  title,  but 
the  oiBoe  and  duty  signified  by  it.  Lady  means  "bread- 
giver"  or  "loaf-giver,"  and  Lord  means  "  maintain  er  of 
laws,"  and  both  titles  have  reference,  not  to  the  law  which  is 
maintained  in  the  house,  nor  to  the  bread  which  is  given  to 
the  household ;  but  to  law  maintained  for  the  multitude,  and 
to  bread  broken  among  the  multitude.  So  that  a  Lord  has 
legal  claim  only  to  his  title  in  so  far  as  he  is  the  maintainer 
of  the  justice  of  the  Lord  of  Lords;  and  a  Lady  has  legal 
claim  to  her  title,  only  so  far  as  she  communicates  that 
help  to  the  poor  representatives  of  her  Master,  which  women 
once,  ministering  to  Him  of  their,  substance,  were  permitted 
to  extend  to  that  Master  Himself;  and  when  she  is  known, 
as  He  Himself  once  was,  in  breaking  of  bread. 

*  I  wish  there  were  a  true  order  of  chivalry  instituted  for  our  English 
youth  of  ceriaiu  ranks,  in  which  both  boj  and  girl  should  receive,  at  a 
given  age,  their  knighthood  and  ladyhood  by  true  title ;  attainable  only  by 
certain  probation  and  trial  both  of  character  and  accomplishment ;  and  to 
be  forfeited,  on  conviction,  by  their  peers,  of  any  dishonourable  act.  Such 
an  institution  would  bo  entirely,  and  with  all  noble  results,  possible,  in  a 
nation  which  loved  honour.  That  it  would  not  be  possible  among  its 
is  Qot  to  the  discredit  of  the  scheme. 


112  SESAME  AND   LTLTES. 

And  this  beneficent  and  legal  dominion,  this  power  of  iht 
Dominus,  or  House  Lord,  and  of  the  Doraina,  or  Hou8e-Lady, 
is  great  and  venerable,  not  in  the  number  of  those  through 
whom  it  has  lineally  descended,  but  in  the  number  of  those 
whom  it  grasps  within  its  sway ;  it  is  always  regarded  with 
reverent  worship  wherever  its  dynasty  is  founded  on  its  duty, 
and  its  ambition  co-relative  with  its  beneficence.  Your  fancy 
is  pleased  with  the  thought  of  being  noble  ladies,  with  a 
train  of  vassals.  Be  it  so ;  you  cannot  be  too  noble,  and 
your  train  cannot  be  too  great ;  but  see  to  it  that  your  train 
is  of  vassals  whom  you  serve  and  feed,  not  merely  of  slaves 
who  serve  and  feed  yow  ;  and  that  the  multitude  which 
obeys  you  is  of  those  whom  you  have  comforted,  not  oppress- 
ed,— whom  you  have  redeemed,  not  led  into  captivity. 

And  this,  which  is  true  of  the  lower  or  household  dominion, 
is  equally  true  of  the  queenly  dominion  ; — that  highest  dignity 
is  open  to  you,  if  you  will  also  accept  that  highest  •  duty. 
Rex  et  Regina — Roi  et  Reine — "  i?^^A^doe^s  ; "  they  differ 
hut  from  the  Lady  and  Lord,  in  that  their  power  is  supreme 
over  the  mind  as  over  the  person — that  they  not  only  feed 
and  clothe,  but  direct  and  teach.  And  whether  consciously 
or  not,  you  must  be,  in  many  a  heart,  enthroned  :  there  is  no 
putting  by  that  crown ;  queens  you  must  always  be  ;  queens 
to  your  lovers ;  queens  to  your  husbands  and  your  sons ; 
queens  of  higher  mystery  to  the  world  beyond,  which  bows 


OF  queens'  gardens.  lis 

itself,  and  will  for  ever  bow,  before  the  myrtle  crowu,  and 
the  stainless  sceptre,  of  womanhood.  But,  alas  I  you  are  too 
often  idle  and  careless  queens,  grasping  at  majesty  in  t\\9 
least  tliings,  while  you  abdicate  it  in  the  greatest ;  and  ]eav« 
ing  misrule  and  violence  to  work  their  will  among  men,  in 
defiance  of  the  power,  which,  holding  straight  in  gift  from 
the  Prince  of  all  Peace,  the  wicked  among  you  betray,  and 
the  good  forget. 

"  Prince  of  Peace."  N'ote  that  name.  When  kings  rule 
in  that  name,  and  nobles,  and  the  judges  of  the  earth,  they 
also,  in  their  narrow  place,  and  mortal  measure,  receive  the 
power  of  it.  There  are  no  other  rulers  than  they :  other  rule 
than  theirs  is  but  misrule ;  they  who  govern  verily  "  Dei 
gratis  "  are  all  princes,  yes,  or  princesses,  of  peace.  There 
is  not  a  war  in  the  world,  no,  nor  an  injustice,  but  you  women 
are  answerable  for  it ;  not  in  that  you  have  provoked,  but  in 
that  you  have  not  hindered.  Men,  by  their  nature,  are  prone 
to  fight ;  they  will  fight  for  any  cause,  or  for  none.  It  is  for 
you  to  choose  their  cause  for  them,  and  to  forbid  them  when 
there  is  no  cause.  There  is  no  suffering,  no  injustice,  no 
misery  in  the  earth,  but  the  guilt  of  it  lies  lastly  with  you. 
Men  can  bear  the  sight  of  it,  but  you  should  not  be  able  to 
bear  it.  Men  may  tread  it  down  without  sympathy  in  their 
own  struggle;  but  men  are  feeble  in  sympathy,  and  con 
tracted  in  hope ;  it  is  you  only  who  can  feel  the  depths  of 


114  SESAME   AND   LILIES. 

pain;  and  conceive  the  way  of  its  healing.  Instead  of  trying 
to  do  this,  you  turn  away  from  it;  you  shut  yourselves  within 
your  park  walls  and  garden  gates;  and  you  are  content  to 
know  that  there  is  beyond  them  a  whole  world  in  wilderness 
— a  world  of  secrets  which  yon  dare  not  penetrate ;  and  of 
suffering  which  you  dare  not  conceive. 

I  tell  you  that  this  is  to  me  quite  the  most  amazing  among 
the  phenomena  of  humanity.  I  am  surprised  at  no  depths  to 
which,  when  once  warped  from  its  honour,  that  humanity  can 
be  degraded.'  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  miser's  death,  with 
his  hands,  as  they  relax,  dropping  gold.  I  do  not  wonder  at 
the  sensualist's  life,  with  the  shroud  wrapped  about  his  feet. 
I  do  not  wonder  at  the  single-handed  murder  of  a  single 
victim,  done  by  the  assassin  in  the  darkness  of  the  rail  way, 
or  reed-shadow  of  the  marsh.  I  do  not  even  wonder  at  the 
myriad-handed  murder  of  multitudes,  done  boastfully  in  the 
daylight,  by  the  frenzy  of  nations,  and  the  immeasurable, 
unimaginable  guilt,  heaped  up  from  hell  to  heaven,  of  their 
priests,  and  kings.  But  this  is  wonderful  to  me— oh,  how 
wonderful! — ^to  see  the  tender  and  delicate  woman  among 
you,  with  her  child  at  her  breast,  and  a  power,  if  she  would 
wield  it,  over  it,  and  over  its  father,  purer  than  the  air  of 
heaven,  and  stronger  than  the  seas  of  earth — ^nay,  a  magni- 
tude  of  blessing  which  her  husband  would  not  part  with  for 
all  that  earth  itself,  though  it  were  made  of  one  entire  and 


OF  queens'  gardens.  11(j 

perfect  chrysolite : — to  see  her  abdicate  this  majesty  to  play 
at  precedence  with  her  next-door  neighbour !  This  is  won- 
derful— oh,  wonderful ! — ^to  see  her,  with  every  innocent  feeh 
mg  fresh  within  her,  go  out  in  the  morning  into  her  garden 
to  play  with  the  fringes  of  its  guarded  flowers,  and  lift  theif 
heads  when  they  are  drooping,  with  her  happy  smile  upon 
her  face,  and  no  cloud  upon  her  brow,  because  there  is  a 
little  wall  around  her  place  of  peace :  and  yet  she  knows,  in 
her  heart,  if  she  would  only  look  for  its  knowledge,  that, 
outside  of  that  little  rose-covered  wall,  the  wild  grass,  to  the 
horizon,  is  torn  up  by  the  agony  of  men,  and  beat  level  by 
the  drift  of  their  life-blood. 

Have  you  ever  considered  what  a  deep  under  meamng 
there  lies,  or  at  least,  may  be  read,  if  we  choose,  in  our  cus- 
tom of  strewing  flowers  before  those  whom  we  think  most 
happy  ?  Do  you  suppose  it  is  merely  to  deceive  them  into 
the  hope  that  happiness  is  always  to  fall  thus  in  showers  at 
their  feet? — that  wherever  they  pass  they  will  tread  on  herbs 
of  sweet  scent,  and  that  the  rough  ground  will  be  made 
smooth  for  them  by  depth  of  roses?  So  surely  as  they 
believe  that,  they  will  have,  instead,  to  walk  on  bitter  herbs 
and  thorns ;  and  the  only  softness  to  their  feet  will  be  of 
snow.  But  it  is  not  thus  intended  they  should  believe 
there  is  a  better  meaning  in  that  old  custom.  The  path  of  a 
good  woman  is  indeed  strewn  with  flowers;  but  they  rise 


116  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

behind  her  steps,  not  before  them.  "  Her  feet  ha\  e  touched 
the  meadows,  and  left  the  daisies  rosy."  You  think  that 
only  a  lover's  fancy;— false  and  vain!  How  if  it/conld  be 
true  ?     You  think  this  also,  perhaps,  only  a  poet's  fancy — 

"  Even  the  light  harebell  raised  its  head 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread." 

But  it  is  little  to  say  of  a  woman,  that  she  only  does  not 
destroy  where  she  passes.  She  should  revive  ;  the  harebella 
should  bloom,  not  stoop,  as  she  passes.  You  think  I  am 
going  into  wild  hyperbole?  Pardon  me,  not  a  whit — I 
mean  what  I  say  in  calm  English,  spoken  in  resolute  truth. 
You  have  heard  it  said — (and  I  believe  there  is  more  than 
fancy  even  in  that  saying,  but  let  it  pass  for  a  fanciful  one) — 
that  flowers  only  flourish  rightly  in  the  garden  of  some  one 
who  loves  them.  I  know  you  would  like  that  to  be  true ; 
you  would  think  it  a  pleasant  magic  if  you  could  flush  your 
flowers  into  brighter  bloom  by  a  kind  look  upon  them :  nay, 
more,  if  your  look  had  the  power,  not  only  to  cheer,  but  to 
guard  them — if  you  could  bid  the  black  blight  turn  away, 
and  the  knotted  caterpillar  spare — if  you  could  bid  the  dew 
fall  upon  them  in  the  drought,  and  say  to  the  south  wind,  in 
frost — "  Come,  thou  south,  and  breathe  upon  my  garden,  that 
the  spices  of  it  may  flow  out."  This  you  would  think  a 
great  thing?    And  do  you  think  it  not  a  greater  thing,  that 


OF  queens'  gakdens.  117 

all  this,  (and  how  much  more  than  this!)  you  cmi  do,  for 
fairer  flowers  than  these — flowers  that  could  bless  you  for 
having  blessed  them,  and  will  love  you  for  having  loved 
them  ; — flowers  that  have  eyes  like  yours,  and  thoughts  lik( 
yours,  and  lives  like  yours ;  which,  once  saved,  you  save  for 
ever  ?  Is  this  only  a  little  power  ?  Far  among  the  moor- 
lands and  the  rocks, — far  in  the  darkness  of  the  terrible 
streets, — these  feeble  florets  are  lying,  with  all  their  fresh 
leaves  torn,  and  their  stems  broken — will  you  never  go  down 
to  them,  nor  set  them  in  order  in  their  little  fragrant  beds, 
nor  fence  them  in  their  shuddering  from  the  fierce  wind? 
Shall  morning  follow  morning,  for  you,  but  not  for  them ; 
and  the  dawn  rise  to  watch,  far  away,  those  frantic  Dances 
of  Death  ;*  but  no  dawn  rise  to  breathe  upon  these  living 
banks  of  wild  violet,  and  woodbine,  and  rose;  nor  call  to 
you,  through  your  casement, — call,  (not  giving  you  the  name 
of  the  English  poet's  lady,  but  the  name  of  Dante's  great 
Matilda,  who,  on  the  edge  of  happy  Lethe,  stood,  wreathing 
flowers  with  flowers,)  saying : — 

"  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown  ?" 

Will  you  not  go  down  among  them? — among  those  sweet 
♦  See  note,  p.  57. 


118  -SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

living  things,  whose  new  courage,  sprung  from  the  earth 
with  the  deep  colour  of  heaven  upon  it,  is  starting  np  in 
Btrength  of  goodly  spire ;  and  whose  purity,  washed  from 
the  dust,  is  opening,  bud  by  bud,  into  the  flower  of  promise 
— and  still  they  turn  to  you,  and  for  you,  "  The  Larkspui 
listens — I  hear,  I  hear !     And  the  Lily  whispers — I  wait." 

Did  you  notice  that  1  missed  two  lines  when  I  read  yoi 
that  first  stanza ;  and  think  that  I  had  forgotten  them  ? 
Hear  them  now : — 

"  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown ; 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate,  alone." 

Who  is  it,  think  you,  who  stands  at  the  gate  of  this 
Bweeter  garden,  alone,  waiting  for  you  ?  Did  you  ever  hear, 
hot  of  a  Maude,  but  a  Madeleine,  who  went  down  to  her 
garden  in  the  dawn,  and  found  One  waiting  at  the  gate, 
whom  she  supposed  to  be  the  gardener?  Have  you  not 
sought  Him  often; — sought  Him  in  vain,  all  through  the 
i  night ;— sought  Him  in  vain  at  the  gate  of  that  old  garden 
where  the  fiery  sword  is  set?  He  is  never  there ;  but  at  tlie 
gate  of  this  garden  He  is  waiting  always — waiting  to  takf 
your  hand — ready  to  go  down  to  see  the  fruits  of  the  valley 


OF  queens'  gardens.  119 

to  see  whether  the  vine  has  flourished,  and  the  pomegraDate 
budded.  There  you  shall  see  with  Him  the  little  tendrils  of 
the  vines  that  His  hand  is  guiding — there  you  shall  see  the 
pomegranate  springing  where  His  hand  cast  the  sanguine 
seed  ; — more :  you  shall  see  the  troops  of  the  angel  keepers 
that,  with  their  wings,  wave  away  the  hungry  birds  from  the 
pathsides  where  He  has  sown,  and  call  to  each  other  between 
the  vineyard  rows,  "  Take  us  the  foxes,  the  little  foxes,  that 
spoil  the  vines,  for  our  vines  have  tender  grapes."  Oh — you 
queens — you  queens  !  among  the  hills  and  happy  greenwood 
of  this  land  of  yours,  shall  the  foxes  have  holes,  and  the 
birds  of  the  air  have  nests ;  and,  in  your  cities,  shall  the 
stones  cry  out  against  you,  that  they  are  the  only  pillowa 
where  the  Son  of  Man  can  lay  His  head  ? 


LECTURE  III. 

THE  MYSTERY   OF  LIFE   AND   ITS   AETS. 

Lecture  delivered  in  the  theatre  of  the  Royal  College  of  Science, 
Dublin,  1868. 

96.  When  I  accepted  the  privilege  of  addressing  you 
to-day,  I  was  not  aware  of  a  restriction  with  respect  to 
the  topics  of  discussion  which  may  be  brought  before  this 
Society* — a  restriction  which,  though  entirely  wise  and 
right  under  the  circumstances  contemplated  in  its  Intro- 
duction, would  necessarily  have  disabled  me,  thinking  as 
I  think,  from  preparing  any  lecture  for  you  on  the  subject 
of  art  in  a  form  which  might  be  pei-manently  useful. 
Pardon  me,  therefore,  in  so  far  as  I  must  transgiess  such 
limitation ;  for  indeed  my  infringement  will  be  of  the  letter 
— not  of  the  spirit — of  your  commands.  In  whatever  I 
may  say  touching  the  religion  which  has  been  the  foun 
dation  of  art,  or  the  policy  which  has  contributed  to  its 
power,  if  I  offend  one,  I  shall  offend  all;  tor  I  shall  take 
no  note  of  any  separations  in  creeds,  or  antagonisms  in 
parties:  neither  do  I  fear  that  ultimately  I  shall  offend 

•  That  no  reference  should  be  made  to  religious  questions. 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  Am>  ITS  ARTS.  121 

any,  by  proving — or  at  least  stating  as  capable  of  positive 
proof — the  connection  of  all  that  is  best  in  the  crafts  and 
arts  of  man,  with  the  simplicity  of  his  faith,  and  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  patriotism. 

97.  But  I  speak  to  you  under  another  disadvantage,  by 
which  I  am  checked  in  frankness  'of  utterance,  not  here 
only,  but  everywhere ;  namely,  that  I  am  never  fully 
aware  how  far  my  audiences  are  disposed  to  give  me 
credit  for  real  knowledge  of  my  subject,  or  how  far  they 
grant  me  attention  only  because  I  have  been  sometimes 
thought  an  ingenious  or  pleasant  essayist  upon  it.  For  I 
have  had  what,  in  many  respects,  I  boldly  call  the  misfor- 
tune, to  set  my  words  sometimes  prettily  together  ;  not 
without  a  foolish  vanity  in  the  poor  knack  that  I  had 
of  doing  so  ;  until  I  was  heavily  punished  for  this  pride, 
by  finding  that  many  people  thought  of  the  words  only, 
and  cared  nothing  for  their  meaning.  Happily,  therefore, 
the  power  of  using  such  pleasant  language — if  indeed  it 
ever  were  mine — is  passing  away  from  me  ;  and  whatever 
I  am  now  able  to  say  at  all,  I  find  myself  forced  to 
say  with  great  plainness.  For  my  thoughts  have  changed 
also,  as  my  words  have  ;  and  whereas  in  earlier  life, 
what  little  influence  I  obtained  was  due  perhaps  chiefly  to 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  I  was  able  to  dwell  on  the 
beauty  of  the  physical  clouds,  and  of  their  colouis  in  the 


■"X 


122  SESAME  AISB  LILIES. 

Bky  ;  so  all  the  influence  I  now  desire  to  retain  must  he 
due  to  the  earnestness  with  which  I  am  endeavouring  to 
trace  the  form  and  beauty  of  another  kind  of  cloud  tlian 
those  ;   the   bright   cloud,  of  which   it  is   written — 

"  What  is  your  life  ?  It  is  even  as  a  vapour  that  ap 
peareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away." 

98.  I  suppose  few  people  reach  the  middle  or  latter 
period  of  their  age,  without  having,  at  some  moment  of 
change  or  disappointment,  felt  the  truth  of  those  bitter 
words;  and  been  startled  by  the  fading  of  the  sunshine 
from  the  cloud  of  their  life,  into  the  sudden  agony  of 
the  knowledge  that  the  fabric  of  it  was  as  fragile  as  a 
dream,  and  the  endurance  of  it  as  transient  as  the  dew. 
But  it  is  not  always  that,  even  at  such  times  of  melan- 
choly surprise,  we  can  enter  into  any  true  perception  that 
this  human  life  shares,  in  the  nature  of  it,  not  only  the 
evanescence,  but  the  mystery  of  the  cloud  ;  that  its 
avenues  are  wreathed  in  darkness,  and  its  forms  and 
courses  no  less  fantastic,  than  spectral  and  obscure  ;  so 
that  not  only  in  the  vanity  which  we  cannot  grasp,  but 
in  the  shadow  which  we  cannot  pierce,  it  is  true  of  thia 
cloudy  life  of  ours,  that  "  man  walketh  in  a  vain  shadow, 
and  disquieteth  himself  in  vain." 

99.  And  least  of  all,  whatever  may  have  been  the  eager« 
oess  of   our  passions,  or  the  height  of    our  pride,  are  W9 


mystekt  of  life  and  its  arts.  123 

able  to  understand  in  its  depth  the  third  and  most  solemn 
character  in  which  our  life  is  like  those  clouds  of  heaven ; 
that  to  it  belongs  not  only  their  transience,  not  only 
their  mystery,  but  also  their  power  ;  that  in  the  cloud  of 
the  human  soul  there  is  a  fire  stronger  than  the  light- 
ning, and  a  grace  more  precious  than  the  rain  ;  and  that 
though  of  the  good  and  evil  it  shall  one  day  be  said 
alike,  that  the  place  that  knew  them  knows  them  no  more, 
there  is  an  infinite  separation  between  those  whose  brief 
presence  had  there  been  a  blessing,  like  the  mist  of 
Eden  that  went  up  from  the  earth  to  water  the  garden, 
and  those  whose  place  knew  them  ordy  as  a  driftiiig  and 
changeful  shade,  of  whom  the  heavelily  sentence  is,  that 
they  are  "  wells  without  water  ;  clouds  that  are  carried 
with  a  tempest,  to  whom  the  mist  of  darkness  is  re- 
served for  ever  ?  " 

100.  To  those  among  us,  however,  who  have  lived 
long  enough  to  form  some  just  estimate  of  the  rate  of 
the  changes  which  are,  hour  by  hour  in  accelerating  catas- 
trophe, manifesting  themselves  in  the  laws,  the  arts,  and 
the  creeds  of  men,  it  seems  to  me,  that  now  at  least,  if 
never  at  any  former  time,  the  thoughts  of  the  true  nature 
of  our  life,  and  of  its  powers  and  responsibilities,  should 
present    themselves    with    absolute    sadness  and   sternness. 

And  although  I  know  that  this  feeling  is  much  deepened 


124  SESAIVIE  AND  LILIES. 

in  my  own  mind  by  disappointment,  which,  by  chance,  haa 
attended  the  greater  number  of  my  cherished  purposes, 
I  do  not  for  that  reason  distrust  the  feeling  itself, 
though  I  am  on  my  guard  against  an  exaggerated  degree 
of  it :  nay,  I  rather  believe  that  in  periods  of  new  effort 
and  violent  change,  disappointment  is  a  wholesome  medi- 
cine; and  that  in  the  secret  of  it,  as  in  the  twilight  so 
beloved  by  Titian,  we  may  see  the  colours  of  things  with 
deeper  truth  than  in  the  most  dazzling  sunshine.  And 
because  these  truths  about  the  works  of  men,  which  I 
want  to  bring  to-day  before  you,  are  most  of  them  sad 
ones,  though  at  the  same  time  helpful ;  and  because  also 
I  believe  that  your  kind  Irish  hearts  will  answer  more 
gladly  to  the  truthful  expression  of  a  personal  feeling, 
than  to  the  exposition  of  an  abstract  principle,  I  will  per- 
mit myself  so  much  unreserved  speaking  of  my  own  causes 
of  regret,  as  may  enable  you  to  make  just  allowance  for 
what,  according  to  your  sympathies,  you  will  call  either 
the  bitterness,  or  the  insight,  of  a  mind  which  has  sur- 
rendered its  best  hopes,  and  been  foiled  in  its  favourite 
aims. 

101.  I  spent  the  ten  strongest  years  of  my  life,  (from 
twenty  to  thirty,)  in  endeavouring  to  show  the  excellence 
of  the  work  of  the  man  whom  I  believed,  and  rightly 
believed,   to   be  the   greatest   painter   of  the   schools    of 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  AETS.  125 

England  since  Reynolds.  I  had  then  perfect  faith  in  the 
power  of  every  great  truth  or  beauty  to  prevail  ultimately, 
and  take  its  right  place  in  usefulness  and  honour;  and  I 
strove  to  bring  the  painter's  work  into  this  due  place, 
while  the  painter  was  yet  alive.  But  he  knew,  better  than  T, 
the  uselessness  of  talking  about  what  people  could  not  see  foi 
themselves.  He  always  discouraged  me  scornfully,  even 
when  he  thanked  me — and  he  died  before  even  the  superficial 
effect  ot'my  work  was  visible.  I  went  on,  however,  thinking 
I  could  at  least  be  of  use  to  the  public,  if  not  to  him,  in 
proving  his  power.  My  books  got  talked  about  a  little. 
The  prices  of  modern  pictures,  generally,  rose,  and  I  was 
beginning  to  take  some  pleasure  in  a  sense  of  gradual 
victory,  when,  fortunately  or  unfortunately,  an  opportunity 
of  perfect  trial  undeceived  me  at  once,  and  for  ever. 
The  Trustees  of  the  National  Gallery  commissioned  me 
to  arrange  the  Turner  drawings  there,  and  permitted  me 
to  prepare  three  hundred  examples  of  his  studies  from 
nature,  for  exhibition  at  Kensington.  At  Kensington  they 
were  and  are,  placed  for  exhibition  ;  but  they  are  not 
exhibited,  for  the  room  in  which  they  hang  is  always 
empty. 

102.  Well — this  showed  me  at  once,  that  those  ten  years 
of  my  life  had  been,  in  their  chief  purpose,  lost.  For  that, 
I  did  not  so  much  care ;  I  had,  at  least,  learned  my  own 


126  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

business  thoroughly,  and  should  be  able,  as  I  fondly  sup« 
posed,  after  such  a  lesson,  now  to  use  my  knowledge 
with  better  effect.  But  what  I  did  care  for,  was  the — to 
me  frightful — discovery,  that  the  most  splendid  genius  in 
the  arts  might  be  permitted  by  Providence  to  labour  and 
perish  uselessly ;  that  in  the  very  fineness  of  it  there  might 
be  something  rendering  it  invisible  to  ordinary  eyes;  but, 
that  with  this  strange  excellence,  faults  might  be  mingled 
which  would  be  as  deadly  as  its  virtues  were  vain;  that 
the  glory  of  it  was  perishable,  as  well  as  invisible,  and 
the  gift  and  grace  of  it  might  be  to  us,  as  snow  in  sum- 
mer, and  as  rain  in  harvest. 

103.  That  was  the  first  mystery  of  life  to  me.  But,  while 
my  best  energy  was  given  to  the  study  of  painting,  I  had 
put  collateral  effort,  more  prudent,  if  less  enthusiastic,  in- 
to that  of  architecture;  and  in  this  I  could  not  complain 
of  meeting  with  no  sympathy.  Among  several  personal 
reasons  which  caused  me  to  desire  that  I  might  give  this, 
my  closing  lecture  on  the  subject  of  art  here,  in  Ireland, 
one  of  the  chief  was,  that  in  reading  it,  I  should  stand 
near  the  beautiful  building, — the  engineers'  school  of  your 
college, — which  was  the  first  realization  I  had  the  joy  to 
see,  of  the  principles  I  had,  until  then,  been  endeavouring 
to  teach;  but  which  alas,  is  now,  to  me,  no  more  than 
the  richly  canopied  monument  of  one  of  the  most  earnest 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  12? 

souls  that  ever  gave  itself  to  the  arts,  and  one  of  my  truest 
and  most  loving  friends,  Benjamin  "Woodward.  Nor  was 
it  here  in  Ireland  only  that  I  received  the  help  of  Irish 
sympathy  and  genius.  When,  to  another  friend,  Sir  Thomaa 
Deane,  with  Mr.  Woodward,  was  entrusted  the  building 
of  the  museum  at  Oxford,  the  best  details  of  the  work 
were  executed  by  sculptors  who  had  been  born  and  trained 
here ;  and  the  first  window  of  the  fagade  of  the  building, 
in  which  was  inaugurated  the  study  of  natural  science  in 
England,  in  true  fellowship  with  literature,  was  carved 
from  my  design  by  an  Irish  sculptor. 

104.  You  may  perhaps  think  that  no  man  ought  to  speak 
of  disappointment,  to  whom,  even  in  one  bianch  of  labour, 
so  much  success  was  granted.  Had  Mr.  Woodward  now 
been  beside  me,  I  had  not  so  spoken ;  but  his  gentle  and 
passionate  spirit  was  cut  off  from  the  fulfilment  of  its  pur- 
poses, and  the  work  we  did  together  is  now  become  vain. 
It  may  not  be  so  in  future;  but  the  architecture  we  en- 
deavoured to  introduce  is  inconsistent  alike  with  the  reck- 
less luxury,  the  deforming  mechanism,  and  the  squalid 
misery  of  modern  cities;  among  the  formative  fashions  of 
the  day,  aided,  especially  in  England,  by  ecclesiastical  senti- 
ment, it  indeed  obtained  notoriety ;  and  sometimes  be- 
hind an  engine  furnace,  or  a  railroad  bank,  you  may  detect 
the   pathetic   discord   of   its    momentary   grace,   and,    with 


128  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

toil,  decipher  its  floral  carvings  choked  \^ith  soot.  I  felt 
answerable  to  the  schools  I  loved,  only  for  their  injury. 
I  perceived  that  this  new  portion  of  nay  strength  had  also 
been  spent  in  vain ;  and  from  amidst  streets  of  iron,  and 
palaces  of  crystal,  shrank  back  at  last  to  the  carving  of 
the  mountain  and  colour  of  the  flower. 

105.  And  still  I  could  tell  of  failure,  and  failure  repeated, 
as  years  went  on;  but  I  have  trespassed  enough  on  your 
patience  to  show  you,  in  part,  the  causes  of  my  discour- 
agement. Now  let  me  more  deliberately  tell  you  its  results. 
You  know  there  is  a  tendency  in  the  minds  of  many  men, 
when  they  are  heavily  disappointed  in  the  main  purposes 
of  their  life,  to  feel,  and  perhaps  in  warning,  perhaps  in 
mockery,  to  declare,  that  life  itself  is  a  vanity.  Because 
it  has  disappointed  them,  they  think  its  nature  is  of  dis- 
appointment always,  or  at  best,  of  pleasure  that  can  be 
grasped  by  imagination  only;  that  the  cloud  of  it  has  no 
strength  nor  fire  within  ;  but  is  a  painted  cloud  only,  to 
be  delighted  in,  yet  despised.  You  know  how  beautifully 
Pope   has  expressed    this    particular  phase   of  thought  :— 

*'  Meanwhile  opinion  gilds,  with  varying  rays, 
These  painted  clouds  that  beautify  our  days ; 
Each  want  of  happiness  by  hope  supplied, 
And  each  vacuity  of  sense,  by  pride. 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ABTS.  129 

Hope  builds  as  fast  as  Knowledge  can  destroy ; 
In  Folly's  cup,  still  laughs  the  bubble  joy. 
One  pleasure  past,  another  still  we  gain, 
And  not  a  vanity  is  given  in  vain." 

But  tlie  effect  of  failure  upon  my  own  mind  has  been 
just  the  reverse  of  this.  The  more  that  my  life  disap- 
pointed me,  the  more  solemn  and  wonderful  it  became 
to  me.  It  seemed,  contrarily  to  Pope's  saying,  that 
the  vanity  of  it  was  indeed  given  in  vain ;  but  that 
there  was  something  behind  the  veil  of  it,  which  was 
not  vanity.  It  became  to  me  not  a  painted  cloud,  but 
a  terrible  and  impenetrable  one:  not  a  mirage,  which 
vanished  as  I  drew  near,  but  a  pillar  of  darkness,  to 
which  I  was  forbidden  to  draw  near.  For  I  saw  that 
both  my  own  failure,  and  such  success  in  petty  things 
as  in  its  poor  triumph  seemed  to  me  worse  than  failure, 
came  from  the  want  of  sufficiently  earnest  effort  to 
understand  the  whole  law  and  meaning  of  existence,  and 
to  bring  it  to  noble  and  due  end ;  as,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  saw  more  and  more  clearly  that  all  enduring 
success  in  the  arts,  or  in  any  other  occupation,  had 
come  from  the  ruling  of  lower  purposes,  not  by  a 
conviction  of  their  nothingness,  but  by  a  solemn  faith  in 
the  advancing  power  of  human  nature,  or  in  the 
promise,    however    dimly    apprehended,   that    the    mortal 


130  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

part  of  it  would  one  day  be  swallowed  up  in  immortal- 
ity; and  that,  indeed,  the  arts  themselves  never  had 
reached  any  vital  strength  or  honour  but  in  the  effort 
to  proclaim  tliis  immortality,  and  in  the  service  either 
of  great  and  just  religion,  or  of  some  unselfish  patriotism, 
and  law  of  such  national  life  as  must  be  the  foundation 
of  religion. 

106.  Nothing  that  I  have  ever  said  is  more  true  or 
necessary  —  nothing  has  been  more  misunderstood  or 
misapplied — than  my  strong  assertion,  that  the  arts  can 
never  be  right  themselves,  unless  their  motive  is  right. 
It  is  misunderstood  this  way  :  weak  painters,  who  have 
never  learned  their  business,  and  cannot  lay  a  true  line, 
continually  come  to  me,  crying  out  —  "  Look  at  this 
picture  of  mine;  it  inust  be  good,  I  had  such  a  lovely 
motive.  I  have  put  my  whole  heart  into  it,  and  taken 
years  to  think  over  its  treatment."  Well,  the  only  answer 
for  these  people  is — if  one  had  the  cruelty  to  make  it 
— "  Sir,  you  cannot  think  over  anything  in  any  number 
of  years, — you  haven't  the  head  to  do  it ;  and  though 
you  had  fine  motives,  strong  enough  to  make  you  burn 
yourself  in  a  slow  fire,  if  only  first  you  could  paint  a 
picture,  you  can't  paint  one,  nor  half  an  inch  of  onej 
you  haven't  the   hand   to  do  it." 

But,  far  more  decisively   we  lave  to  say   to  the   men 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  131 

who  do  know  their  business,  or  may  know  it  if  they 
choose — "  Sir,  you  have  this  gift,  and  a  mighty  one ;  see 
that  you  serve  your  nation  faithfully  with  it.  It  is  a 
greater  trust  than  ships  and  armies :  you  might  cast 
them  away,  if  you  were  their  captain,  with  less  treason 
to  your  people  than  in  casting  your  own  glorious 
power  away,  and  serving  the  devil  with  it  instead  of 
men.  Ships  and  armies  you  may  replace  if  they  are 
lost,  but  a  great  intellect,  once  abused,  is  a  curse  to 
the    earth   for   ever." 

107.  This,  then,  I  meant  by  saying  that  the  arts  must 
have  noble  motive.  This  also  I  said  respecting  them, 
that  they  never  had  prospered,  nor  could  prosper,  but 
when  they  had  such  true  purpose,  and  were  devoted  to 
the  proclamation  of  divine  truth  or  law.  And  yet  I  saw 
also  that  they  had  always  failed  in  this  proclamation — 
that  poetry,  and  sculpture,  and  painting,  though  only 
great  when  they  strove  to  teach  us  something  about 
the  gods,  never  had  taught  us  anything  trustworthy 
about  the  gods,  but  had  always  betrayed  their  trust  in 
the  crisis  of  it,  and,  with  their  powers  at  the  full  reach, 
became  ministers  to  pride  and  to  lust.  And  I  felt  also, 
with  increasing  amazement,  the  unconquerable  apathy  in 
ourselves  the  hearers,  no  less  than  in  these  the  teachers ; 
and   that,   while   the    wisdom   and   rightness   of   every   act 


132  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

and  art  of  life  could  only  he  consistent  with  a  right 
understanding  of  the  ends  of  life,  we  were  all  plunged 
as  in  a  languid  dream — our  heart  fat,  and  our  eyes 
heavy,  and  our  ears  closed,  lest  the  inspiration  of  hand 
or  voice  should  reach  us — lest  we  should  see  with  our 
eyes,  and  understand  with  our  hearts,  and  be  healed. 
^"lOS.  This  intense  apathy  in  all  of  us  is  the  first  great 
mystery  of  life ;  it  stands  in  the  way  of  every  percep 
tion,  every  virtue.  There  is  no  making  ourselves  feel 
enough  astonishment  at  it.  That  the  occupations  or 
pastimes  of  life  should  have  no  motive,  is  understandable ; 
but — That  life  itself  should  have  no  motive — that  we 
neither  care  to  find  out  what  it  may  lead  to,  nor  to 
guard  against  its  being  for  ever  taken  away  from  us — 
here  is  a  mystery  indeed.  For,  just  suppose  I  were 
able  to  call  at  this  moment  to  any  one  in  this  audience 
by  name,  and  to  tell  him  positively  that  I  knew  a 
large  estate  had  been  lately  left  to  him  on  some  curious 
conditions;  but  that,  though  I  knew  it  was  large,  I  did 
not  know  how  large,  nor  even  where  it  was  — 
whether  in  the  East  Indies  or  the  West,  or  in  England, 
or  at  the  Antipodes.  I  only  knew  it  was  a  vast  estate, 
and  that  there  was  a  chance  of  his  losing  it  altogether 
if  he  did  not  soon  find  out  on  what  terms  it  had  been 
left  to  him.    Suppose  I  were   able  to  say  this  positively 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  133 

to  any  single  man  in  this  audience,  and  be  knew  that 
I  did  not  speak  without  warrant,  do  you  think  that  he 
would  rest  content  with  that  vague  knowledge,  if  it 
were  anywise  possible  to  obtain  more?  Would  he  not 
give  every  energy  to  find  some  trace  of  the  facts,  and 
never  rest  till  he  had  ascertained  where  this  place  was, 
and  what  it  was  like?  And  suppose  he  were  a  young 
man,  and  all  he  could  discover  by  his  best  endeavour 
was,  that  tbe  estate  was  never  to  be  his  at  all,  unless 
he  persevered,  during  certain  years  of  probation,  in  an 
orderly  and  industrious  life;  but  that,  according  to  tbe 
rightness  of  bis  conduct,  the  portion  of  tbe  estate 
assigned  to  him  w^ould  be  greater  or  less,  so  that  it 
literally  depended  on  his  behaviour  from  day  to  day 
whether  he  got  ten  thousand  a  year,  or  thirty  thousand 
a  year,  or  nothing  whatever — would  you  not  think  it 
strange  if  the  youth  never  troubled  himself  to  satisfy 
the  conditions  in  any  way,  nor  even  to  know  what  was 
required  of  him,  but  lived  exactly  as  he  chose,  and 
never  inquired  whether  his  chances  of  the  estate  were 
increasing  or  passing  away?  Well,  you  know  that  this 
is  actually  and  literally  so  with  the  greater  number  of 
the  educated  persons  now  living  in  Christian  countries. 
Nearly  every  man  and  woman,  in  any  company  such  aa 
this,  outwardly   professes  to  believe — and  a  laige  numbei 


134  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

unquestionably  think  they  believe — much  more  than  this; 
not  only  that  a  quite  unlimited  estate  is  in  prospect  for 
them  if  they  please  the  Holder  of  it,  but  that  the 
infinite  contrary  of  such  a  possession — an  estate  of  perpet- 
ual misery,  is  in  store  for  them  if  they  displease  this 
great  Land-Holder,  this  great  Heaven-Holder.  And  yet 
there  is  not  one  in  a  thousand  of  these  human  souls 
that  cares  to  think,  for  ten  minutes  of  the  day,  where 
this  estate  is,  or  how  beautiful  it  is,  or  what  kind  of 
life  they  are  to  lead  in  it,  or  what  kind  of  life  thev 
must  lead  to  obtain  it. 

109.  You  fancy  that  you  care  to  know  this:  so  little  do 
you  care  that,  probably,  at  this  moment  many  of  you  are 
displeased  with  me  for  talking  of  the  matter!  You  came 
to  hear  about  the  Art  of  this  world,  not  about  the  Life  of  the 
next,  and  you  are  provoked  with  me  for  talking  of  what  you 
can  hear  any  Sunday  in  church.  But  do  not  be  afraid. 
I  will  tell  you  something  before  you  go  about  pictures,  ana 
carvings,  and  pottery,  and  what  else  you  would  like  better  to 
hear  of  than  the  other  world.  Nay,  perhaps  you  say,  "  We 
want  you  to  talk  of  pictures  and  pottery,  because  we  are  sure 
that  you  know  something  of  them,  and  you  know  nothing  of 
the  other  world."  Well— I  d<m't.  That  is  quite  true.  Bui 
the  very  strangeness  and  mystery  of  which  I  urge  you  to 
take  notice  is  in  this — that  I  do  not ; — nor  you  either.    Can 


MYSTEEY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  135 

yoa  answer  a  single  bold  question  unflincbingly  about  tbat 
other  world — Are  you  sure  there  is  a  heaven  ?  Sure  there  is 
a  hell?  Sure  that  men  are  dropping  before  your  faces 
through  the  pavements  of  these  streets  into  eternal  fire,  or 
sure  that  they  are  not  ?  Sure  that  at  your  own  death  you 
are  going  to  be  delivered  from  all  sorrow,  to  be  endowed 
with  all  virtue,  to  be  gifted  with  all  felicity,  and  raised  into 
perpetual  companionship  with  a  King,  compared  to  whom 
the  kings  of  the  earth  are  as  grasshoppers,  and  the  nations 
as  the  dust  of  His  feet  ?  Are  you  sure  of  this  ?  or,  if 
not  sure,  do  any  of  us  so  much  as  care  to  make  it  sure? 
and,  if  not,  how  can  anything  that  we  do  be  right — how 
can  anything  we  think  be  wise ;  what  honour  can  there 
be  in  the  arts  that  amuse  us,  or  what  profit  in  the  pos- 
sessions that  please? 

Is  not  this  a  mystery  of  life  ? 

110.  But  farther,  you  may,  perhaps,  think  it  a  beneficent 
ordinance  for  the  generality  of  men  that  they  do  not, 
with  earnestness  or  anxiety,  dwell  on  such  questions  of 
the  future  ;  because  the  business  of  the  day  could  not  be 
done  if  this  kind  of  thought  were  taken  by  all  of  us  for 
the  morrow.  Be  it  so :  but  at  least  we  might  anticipate 
that  the  greatest  and  wisest  of  us,  who  were  evidently 
the  appointed  teachers  of  the  rest,  would  set  themselvea 
apart  to   seek   out   whatever    could    be    surely   known    of 


136  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

the  future  destinies  of  their  race ;  and  to  teach  this  in 
no  rhetorical  or  ambiguous  manner,  but  in  the  plainest  and 
most  severely  earnest  wo.ds. 

Now,  the  highest  representatives  of  men  who  have  thus 
endeavoured,  during  the  Christian  era,  to  search  out  these 
deep  things,  and  relate  them,  are  Dante  and  Milton. 
There  are  none  who  for  earnestness  of  thought,  for  mastery 
of  word,  can  be  classed  with  these.  I  am  not  at  present, 
mind  you,  speaking  of  persons  set  apart  in  any  priestly 
or  pastoral  office,  to  deliver  creeds  to  us,  or  doctrines;  but 
of  men  who  try  to  discover  and  set  foi-th,  as  far  as  by 
human  intellect  is  possible,  the  facts  of  the  other  world. 
Divines  may  perhaps  teach  us  how  to  arrive  there,  but 
only  these  two  potts  have  in  any  powerful  manner  striven 
to  discover,  or  in  any  definite  words  professed  to  tell,  what 
we  shall  see  and  become  there:  or  how  those  upper  and 
nether  worlds  are,  and  have  been,  inhabited. 

111.  And  what  have  they  told  us?  Milton's  account  of 
the  most  important  event  in  his  whole  system  of  the  uni- 
verse, the  fall  of  the  angels,  is  evidently  unbelievable  to  him- 
self; and  the  more  so,  that  it  is  wholly  founded  on,  and  in 
a  great  part  spoiled  and  degraded  from,  Ilesiod's  account 
of  the  decisive  war  of  the  younger  gods  with  the  Titans. 
The  rest  of  his  poem  is  a  picturesque  drama,  in  which  every 
urtifice   of  invention  is  visibly  and  consciously   employed  ; 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  137 

not  a  single  fact  being,  for  an  instant,  conceived  as  tenable 
by  any  living  faith.  Dante's  conception  is  far  more  intense, 
and,  by  himself,  for  the  time,  not  to  be  escaped  from ; 
it  is  indeed  a  vision,  but  a  vision  only,  and  that  one  of 
the  wildest  that  ever  entranced  a  soul — a  dream  in  which 
every  grotesque  type  or  phantasy  of  heathen  tradition  is 
renewed,  and  adorned  ;  and  the  destinies  of  the  Christian 
Church,  under  their  most  sacred  symbols,  become  literally 
subordinate  to  the  praise,  and  are  only  to  be  understood  by 
the  aid,  of  one  dear  Florentine  maiden. 

112.  I  tell  you  truly  that,  as  I  strive  more  with  this 
strange  lethargy  and  trance  in  myself,  and  awake  to  tht 
meaning  and  power  of  life,  it  seems  daily  more  amazing 
to  me  that  men  such  as  these  should  dare  to  play  with 
the  most  precious  truths,  (or  the  most  deadly  untruths,)  by 
which  the  whole  human  race  listening  to  them  could  be 
informed,  or  deceived; — all  the  world  their  audiences  for 
ever,  with  pleased  ear,  and  passionate  heart ;— and  yet,  to 
this  submissive  infinitude  of  souls,  and  evermore  succeeding 
and  succeeding  multitude,  hungry  for  bread  of  life,  they 
do  but  play  upon  sweetly  modulated  pipes ;  with  pompous 
nomenclature  adorn  the  councils  of  hell;  touch  a  trouba- 
dour's guitar  to  the  courses  of  the  suns ;  and  fill  the  epen 
ings  of  eternity,  before  which  prophets  have  veiled  theii 
faces,  and  which  angels  desire  to  look  into,  with  idle  puppets 


138  SESAltfE  AND  LILIES. 

of  their  scholastic  imagination,  and  melancholy  lights  of 
frantic  faith  in  their  lost  mortal  love. 

Is  not  this  a  mystery  of  life  ? 

113.  But  more.  We  have  to  remember  that  these  two 
great  teachers  were  both  of  them  warped  in  their  temper, 
and  thwarted  in  their  search  for  truth.  They  were  men  of 
intellectual  war,  unable,  through  darkness  of  controversy, 
or  stress  of  personal  grief,  to  discern  where  their  own 
ambition  modified  their  utterances  of  the  moral  law;  or 
their  own  agony  mingled  with  their  anger  at  its  violation. 
But  greater  men  than  these  have  been — innocent-hearted — 
too  great  for  contest.  Men,  like  Homer  and  Shakespeare,  of 
so  unrecognized  personality,  that  it  disappears  in  future 
ages,  and  becomes  ghostly,  like  the  tradition  of  a  lost 
heathen  god.  Men,  therefore,  to  whose  unoffended,  un- 
condemning  sight,  the  whole  of  human  nature  reveals  itself 
in  a  pathetic  weakness,  with  which  they  will  not  strive ; 
or  in  mournful  and  transitory  strength,  which  they  dare 
not  praise.  And  all  Pagan  and  Christian  civilization  thus 
becomes  subject  to  them.  It  does  not  matter  how  little, 
or  how  much,  any  of  us  have  read,  either  of  Homer  o^ 
Shakespeare;  everything  round  us,  in  substance,  or  in 
thought,  has  been  moulded  by  them.  All  Greek  gentlemen 
were  educated  under  Homer.  All  Roman  gentlemen,  by 
Greek    literature.    All    Italian,    and   French,   and    English 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  139 

gentlemen,  by  Roman  literature,  and  by  its  principles. 
Of  the  scope  of  Shakespeare,  I  will  say  only,  that  the 
intellectual  measure  of  every  man  since  born,  in  the 
domains  of  creative  thought,  may  be  assigned  to  him, 
according  to  the  degree  in  which  he  has  been  taught  by 
Shakespeare.  Well,  what  do  these  two  men,  centres  of 
mortal  intelligence,  deliver  to  us  of  conviction  respecting 
what  it  most  behoves  that  intelligence  to  grasp?  What 
is  their  hope;  their  crown  of  rejoicing?  what  manner  of 
exhortation  have  they  for  us,  or  of  rebuke?  what  lies 
next  their  own  hearts,  and  dictates  their  undying  words  ? 
Have  they  any  peace  to  promise  to  our  unrest — any  re- 
demption to  our  misery  ? 

114.  Take  Homer  first,  and  think  if  there  is  any  sadder 
image  of  human  fate  than  the  great  Homeric  story.  The 
main  features  in  the  character  of  Achilles  are  its  intense 
desire  of  justice,  and  its  tenderness  of  affection.  And  in 
that  bitter  song  of  the  Iliad,  this  man,  though  aided  con- 
tinually by  the  wisest  of  the  gods,  and  burning  with  the 
desire  of  justice  in  his  heart,  becomes  yet,  through  ill- 
governed  passion,  the  most  unjust  of  men:  and,  full  of  the 
deepest  tenderness  in  his  heart,  becomes  yet,  through  ill- 
governed  passion,  the  most  cruel  of  men.  Intense  alike 
in  love  and  in  friendship,  he  loses,  first  his  mistress,  and 
then  his  friend ;  for  the  sake  of  the  one,  he  surrenders  to 


140  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

death  the  armies  of  his  own  land ;  for  the  sake  of  the 
other,  he  surrenders  all.  Will  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for 
his  friend?  Yea — even  for  his  dead  friend,  this  Achilles, 
though  goddess-bom,  and  goddess-taught,  gives  up  his 
kingdom,  his  country,  and  his  life — casts  alike  the  innocent 
and  guilty,  with  himself,  into  one  gulf  of  slaughter,  and 
dies  at  last  by  the  hand  of  the  basest  of  his  adversaries. 
Is  not  this  a  mystery  of  life? 

^^  115.  But  what,  then,  is  the  message  to  us  of  our  own 
poet,  and  searcher  of  hearts,  after  fifteen  hundred  years  of 
Christian  faith  have  been  numbered  over  the  graves  of 
men  ?  Are  his  words  more  cheerful  than  the  heathen's — 
is  his  hope  more  near — his  trust  more  sure — his  reading  of 
fate  more  happy  ?  Ah,  no !  He  difiers  from  the  Heathen 
poet  chiefly  in  this — that  he  recognizes,  for  deliverance, 
no  gods  nigh  at  hand;  and  that,  by  petty  chance — by 
momentary  folly — by  broken  message — by  fool's  tyranny — 
or  traitor's  snare,  the  strongest  and  most  righteous  are 
brought  to  their  ruin,  and  perish  without  word  of  hope. 
He  indeed,  as  part  of  his  rendering  of  character,  ascribes 
the  power  and  modesty  of  habitual  devotion,  to  the  gentle 
and  the  just.  The  death-bed  of  Katharine  is  bright  with 
vision  of  angels;  and  the  great  soldier-king,  standing  by 
nis  iQ\f  dead,  acknowledges  the  presence  of  the  hand  that 
oan  save  alike  by  many  or  by  few.    But  observe  that  from 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  141 

tliose  who  with  deepest  spirit,  meditate,  and  with  deepest 
passion,  mourn,  there  are  no  such  words  as  these ;  nor  in 
their  hearts  are  any  such  consolations.  Instead  of  the  per- 
petual sense  of  the  helpful  presence  of  the  Deity,  which, 
through  all  heathen  tradition,  is  the  source  of  heroic 
strength,  in  battle,  in  exile,  and  in  the  valley  of  tho 
«?hadow  of  death,  we  find  only  in  the  great  Christian  poet, 
the  consciousness  of  a  moral  law,  through  which  "the 
gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices  make  instruments 
to  scourge  us ; "  and  of  the  resolved  arbitration  of  the 
destinies,  that  conclude  into  precision  of  doom  what  we 
feebly  and  blindly  began  ;  and  force  us,  when  our  indis- 
cretion serves  us,  and  our  deepest  plots  do  pall,  to  the 
confession,  that  "  there's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
rough  hew  them  how  we  will." 

Is  not  this  a  mystery  of  life  ? 

116.  Be  it  so  then.  About  this  human  life  that  is  to  be,  or 
that  is,  the  wise  religious  men  tell  us  nothing  that  we  can 
trust;  and  the  wise  contemplative  men,  nothing  that  can 
give  us  peace.  But  there  is  yet  a  third  class,  to  whom 
we  may  turn — the  wise  practi;^.al  men.  We  have  sat  at 
the  feet  of  the  poets  who  sang  of  heaven,  and  they  have 
told  us  their  dreams.  We  have  listened  to  the  poets  who 
Bang  of  earth,  and  they  have  chanted  to  us  dirges,  and 
words  of  despair.     But  there  is  one  class  of  men  more: — 


142  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

men,  not  capable  of  vision,  nor  sensitive  to  sorrow,  but 
firm  of  purpose — practised  in  business;  learned  in  all  that 
can  be,  (by  handling, — )  known.  Men,  whose  hearts  and 
hopes  are  wholly  in  this  present  world,  from  whom,  there- 
fore, we  may  surely  learn,  at  least,  how,  at  present,  con« 
veniently  to  live  in  it.  What  will  they  say  to  us,  or 
show  us  by  example?  These  kings — these  councillors — 
these  statesmen  and  builders  of  kingdoms — these  capital- 
ists and  men  of  business,  who  weigh  the  earth,  and  the 
dust  of  it,  in  a  balance.  They  know  the  world,  surely ; 
and  what  is  the  mystery  of  life  to  us,  is  none  to  them. 
They  can  surely  show  us  how  to  live,  while  we  live,  and 
to  gather  out  of  the  present  world  what  is  best. 

117.  I  think  I  can  best  tell  you  their  answer,  by  telling 
you  a  dream  I  had  once.  For  though  I  am  no  poet,  I 
have  dreams  sometimes: — ^I  dreamed  I  was  at  a  child's 
May-day  party,  in  which  every  means  of  entertainment  had 
been  provided  for  them,  by  a  wise  and  kind  host.  It  was 
in  a  stately  house,  with  beautiful  gardens  attached  to  it; 
Rnd  the  children  had  been  set  free  in  the  rooms  and  gar- 
dens, with  no  care  whatever  but  how  to  pass  their  after- 
noon rejoicingly.  They  did  not,  indeed,  know  much  about 
what  was  to  happen  next  day ;  and  some  of  them,  I 
thought,  were  a  little  frightened,  because  there  was  a 
chance   of  their  being  sent   to   a  new  school  where  there 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  143 

were  examinations;  but  they  kept  the  thoughts  of  that 
out  of  their  heads  as  well  as  they  could,  and  resolved  to 
enjoy  themselves.  The  house,  I  said,  was  in  a  beautiful 
garden,  and  in  the  garden  were  all  kinds  of  flowers ; 
swert  grassy  banks  for  rest;  and  smooth  lawns  for  play; 
and  pleasant  streams  and  woods ;  and  rocky  places  for 
climbing.  And  the  children  were  happy  for  a  little  while, 
but  presently  they  separated  themselves  into  parties;  and 
then  each  party  declared,  it  would  have  a  piece  of  the 
garden  for  its  own,  and  that  none  of  the  others  should 
have  anything  to  do  with  that  piece.  Npxt,  they  quar- 
relled violently,  which  pieces  they  would  have;  and  at  last 
the  boys  took  up  the  thing,  as  boys  should  do,  "practi- 
cally," and  fought  in  the  flower-beds  till  there  was  hardly 
a  flower  left  standing;  then  they  trampled  down  each 
other's  bits  of  the  garden  out  of  spite ;  and  the  girls 
cried  till  they  could  cry  no  more ;  and  so  they  all  lay 
down  at  last  breathless  in  the  ruin,  and  waited  for  the 
time  when  they  were  to  be  taken  home  in  the  evening.* 

118.  Meanwhile,  the  children  in  the  house  had  been  mak- 
ing themselves  happy  also  in  their  manner.     For  them,  there 

*  I  have  sometimes  been  asked  what  this  means.  I  intended  it  to 
pet  forth  the  wisdom  of  men  in  war  contending  for  kirgdoms,  and 
rhat  follows  to  set  forth  their  wisdom  in  peace,  contending  foi 
irealth. 


144  SESAME  AKD  LILIES. 

had  been  provided  every  kind  of  in-doors  pleasure :  there 
was  music  for  them  to  dance  to;  and  the  library  was 
open,  with  all  manner  of  amusing  books ;  and  there  was  a 
museum,  full  of  the  most  curious  shells,  and  animals,  and 
birds;  and  there  was  a  workshop,  with  lathes  and  car- 
penter's tools,  for  the  ingenious  boys ;  and  there  were 
pretty  fantastic  dresses,  for  the  girls  to  dress  in ;  and 
there  were  microscopes,  and  kaleidoscopes;  and  whatever 
toys  a  child  could  fancy ;  and  a  table,  in  the  dining-room, 
.  loaded  with  everything  nice  to  eat. 

But,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  it  struck  two  or  three  of 
the  more  "practical"  children,  that  they  would  like  some 
of  the  brass-headed  nails  that  studded  the  chairs;  and  so 
they  set  to  work  to  pull  them  out.  Presently,  the  others, 
who  were  reading,  or  looking  at  shells,  took  a  fancy  to 
do  the  like ;  and,  in  a  little  while,  all  the  children,  nearly, 
were  spraining  their  fingers,  in  pulling  out  brass-headed 
nails.  With  all  that  they  could  pull  out,  they  were  not 
satisfied ;  and  then,  everybody  wanted  some  of  somebody 
else's.  And  at  last,  the  really  practical  and  sensible 
ones  declared,  that  nothing  was  of  any  leal  consequence, 
that  afternoon,  except  to  get  p'enty  of  brass-headed  nails; 
and  that  the  books,  and  the  cakes,  and  the  microscopes, 
were  of  no  use  at  all  in  themselves,  but  only,  if  they 
tould    be   exchanged   for    nail-heads.    And,   at    last,    they 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  145 

began  to  fight  for  nail-heads,  as  the  others  fought  for 
the  bits  of  garden.  Only  here  and  there,  a  despised 
one  shrank  away  into  a  corner,  and.  tried  to  get  a  little 
quiet  with  a  book,  in  the  midst  of  the  noise;  but  all 
the  practical  ones  thought  of  nothing  else  but  counting 
nail-heads  all  the  afternoon  —  even  though  they  knew 
they  would  not  be  allowed  to  carry  so  much  as  one 
brass  knob  away  with  them.  But  no — it  was — "  who  has 
most  nails?  I  have  a  hundred,  and  you  have  fifty;  or, 
I  have  a  thousand  and  you  have  two.  I  must  have  as 
many  as  you  before  I  leave  the  house,  or  I  cannot 
possibly  go  home  in  peace."  At  last,  they  made  so 
much  noise  that  I  awoke,  and  thought  to  myself,  "  What 
a  false  dream  that  is,  of  children.''^  The  child  is  the 
father  of  the  man;  and  wiser.  Children  never  do  such 
foolish  things.     Only  men  do. 

119.  But  there  is  yet  one  last  class  of  persons  to  be  in- 
terrogated. The  wise  religious  men  we  have  asked  in 
vain ;  the  wise  contemplative  men,  in  vain ;  the  wise 
worldly  men,  in  vain.  But  there  is  another  group  yet. 
In  the  midst  of  this  vanity  of  empty  religion— of  tragic 
contemplation — of  wrathful  and  wretched  ambition,  and 
dispute  for  dust,  there  is  yet  one  great  group  of 
persons,  by  whom  all  these  disputers  live — the  persons 
who    have   determined,   or    have   had  it   by    a    beneficent 


146  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

Providence  determined  for  them,  that  they  will  do 
something  useful;  that  whatever  may  be  prepared  for 
tliem  hereafter,  or  happen  to  them  here,  they  will,  at 
least,  deserve  the  food  that  God  gives  them  by  winning 
it  honourably;  and  that,  however  fallen  from  the  purity, 
or  far  from  the  peace,  of  Eden,  they  will  carry  out 
the  duty  of  human  dominion,  though  they  have  lost  its 
felicity;  and  dress  and  keep  the  wilderness,  though  they 
no  more  can  dress  or  keep  the  garden. 

These, — hewers  of  wood,  and  drawers  of  water — these 
bent  under  burdens,  or  torn  of  scourges — these,  that 
dig  and  weave — that  plant  and  build ;  workers  in  wood, 
and  in  marble,  and  in  iron — by  whom  all  food,  clothing, 
habitation,  furniture,  and  means  of  delight  are  produced, 
for  themselves,  .and  for  all  men  beside ;  men,  whose  deeds 
are  good,  though  their  words  may  be  few ;  men,  whose 
lives  are  serviceable,  be  they  never  so  short,  and  worthy 
of  honour,  be  they  never  so  humble ; — from  these,  surely 
at  least,  we  may  receive  some  clear  message  of  teaching : 
and  pierce,  for  an  instant,  into  the  mystery  of  life,  and 
of  its  arts. 

120.  Yes;  from  these,  at  last,  we  do  receive  a  lesson. 
But  I  grieve  to  say,  or  rather — for  that  is  the  deeper  truth  of 
the  matter — I  rejoice  to  say — this  message  of  theirs  can  only 
be  received  by  joining  them — ^not  by  thinking  about  thera# 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  147 

.  You  sent  for  me  to  talk  to  you  of  art ;  and  I  have  obeyed 
you  in  coming.  But  the  main  thing  I  have  to  tell  you 
is^ — that  art  must  not  be  talked  about.  The  fact  that 
there  is  talk  about  it  at  all,  signifies  that  it  is  ill  done,  or 
cannot  be  done.  No  true  painter  ever  speaks,  or  ever 
has  spoken,  much  of  his  art.  The  greatest  speak  nothing. 
Even  Reynolds  is  no  exception,  for  he  wrote  of  all  that 
he  could  not  himself  do,  and  was  utterly  silent  respecting 
all  that  he  himself  did. 

The  moment  a  man  can  really  do  his  work,  he  becomes 
speechless  about  it.  All  words  become  idle  to  liim — all 
theories. 

121.  Does  a  bird  need  to  theorize  about  building  its  nest, 
or  boast  of  it  when  built?  All  good  work  is  essentially 
done  that  way — without  hesitation,  without  difficulty,  with- 
out boasting;  and  in  the  doers  of  the  best,  there  is  an 
inner  and  involuntary  power  which  approximates  literally 
to  the  instinct  of  an  animal — nay,  I  am  certain  that  in 
the  most  perfect  human  artists,  reason  does  not  supersede 
instinct,  but  is  added  to  an  instinct  as  much  more  divine 
than  that  of  the  lower  animals  as  the  human  body  is 
more  beautiful  than  theirs ;  that  a  great  singer  sings  not 
with  less  instinct  than  the  nightingale,  but  with  more — 
only  more  various,  applicable,  and  governable ;  that  a  great 
ftrchitect  does  not  build  with  less  instinct  than  the  beavei 


148  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

x)r  the  bee,  but  with  more — with  an  innate  cnnnins:  of 
proportion  that  embraces  all  beauty,  and  a  divine  inge 
nuity  of  skill  that  improvises  all  construction.  But  be  that 
as  it  may — be  the  instinct  less  or  more  than  that  of  infe- 
rior animals — like  or  unlike  theirs,  still  the  human  art  ia 
dependent  on  that  first,  and  then  upon  an  amount  of 
practice,  of  science, — and  of  imagination  disciplined  by 
thought,  which  the  true  possessor  of  it  knows  to  be  in- 
communicable, and  the  true  critic  of  it,  inexplicable,  except 
through  long  process  of  laborious  years.  That  journey  of 
life's  conquest,  in  which  hills  over  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps 
arose,  and  sank, — do  you  think  you  can  make  another 
trace  it  painlessly,  by  talking?  Why,  you  cannot  even 
carry  us  up  an  Alp,  by  talking.  You  can  guide  us  up 
it,  step  by  step,  no  otherwise — even  so,  best  silently.  You 
girls,  who  have  been  among  the  hills,  know  how  the  bad 
guide  chatters  and  gesticulates,  and  it  is  "put  your  foot 
here,"  and  "  mind  how  you  balance  yourself  there ; "  but 
the  good  guide  walks  on  quietly,  without  a  word,  only 
with  his  eyes  on  you  when  need  is,  and  his  arm  like  an 
iron   bar,   if  need  be. 

122.  In  that  slow  way,  also,  art  can  be  taught — if  you 
have  faith  in  your  guide,  and  will  let  his  arm  be  to  you  as 
an  iron  bar  when  need  is.  But  in  what  teacher  of  art  have 
you  such  faiih?     Certainly  not  in  me;  for,  as  I  told  you 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  149 

at  first,  I  know  well  enough  it  is  only  because  you  think 
I  can  talk,  not  because  you  think  I  know  my  business,  that 
you  let  me  speak  to  you  at  all.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  any- 
thing that  seemed  to  you  strange,  you  would  not  believe 
it,  and  yet  it  would  only  be  in  telling  you  strange  things 
that  I  could  be  of  use  to  you.  I  could  be  of  great  use  to 
you — infinite  use,  with  brief  saying,  if  you  would  believe 
it;  but  you  would  not,  just  because  the  thing  that  would 
be  of  real  use  would  displease  you.  You  are  all  wild,  for 
instance,  with  admiration  of  Gustavo  Dore.  Well,  suppose 
I  were  to  tell  you,  in  the  strongest  terms  T  could  use,  that 
Gustave  Dore's  art  was  bad — bad,  not  in  w^eakness, — not 
in  failure, — but  bad  with  dreadful  power — the  power  of 
the  Furies  and  the  Harpies  mingled,  enraging,  and  polluting; 
that  so  long  as  you  looked  at  it,  no  perception  of  pure 
or  beautiful  art  was  possible  for  you.  Suppose  I  were  to 
tell  you  that!  What  would  be  the  use?  Would  you 
look  at  Gustave  Dore  less?  Rather,  more,  I  fancy.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  could  soon  put  you  into  good  humour 
with  me,  if  I  chose.  I  know  well  enough  what  you  like, 
and  how  to  praise  it  to  your  better  liking.  I  could  talk 
to  you  about  moonlight,  and  twilight,  and  spring  flowers, 
and  autumn  leaves,  and  the  Madonnas  of  Raphael — how 
motherly  !  and  the  Sibyls  of  Michael  Angelo — how  ma* 
jestic!    and   the   Saints  of  Angelico— how  pious!    and   the 


150  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

Cherubs  of  Correggio — how  delicious !  Old  as  I  am,  I  could 
play  you  a  tune  on  the  harp  yet,  that  you  would  dance 
to.  But  neither  you  nor  I  should  be  a  bit  the  better  or 
wiser;  or,  if  we  were,  our  increased  wisdom  could  be  of 
no  practical  effect.  For,  indeed,  the  arts,  as  regards 
teachableness,  differ  from  the  sciences  also  in  this,  that 
their  power  is  founded  not  merely  on  facts  which  can  be 
communicated,  but  on  dispositions  which  require  to  be 
created.  Art  is  neither  to  be  achieved  by  effort  of  think- 
ing, nor  explained  by  accuracy  of  speaking.  It  is  the  in- 
stinctive and  necessary  result  of  powers  which  can  only 
be  developed  through  the  mind  of  successive  generations, 
and  which  finally  burst  into  life  under  social  conditions 
as  slow  of  growth  as  the  faculties  they  regulate.  Whole 
aeras  of  mighty  history  are  summed,  and  the  passions  of 
dead  myriads  are  concentrated,  in  the  existence  of  a  noble 
art;  and  if  that  noble  art  were  among  us,  we  should  feel 
it  and  rejoice;  not  caring  in  the  least  to  hear  lectures 
on  it;  and  since  it  is  not  among  us,  be  assured  we  have 
to  go  back  to  the  root  of  it,  or,  at  least,  to  the  place 
where  the  stock  of  it  is  yet  alive,  and  the  branches  began 
to  die. 

123.  And  now,  may  I  have  your  pardon  for  pointing  out, 
partly  with  reference  to  matters  which  are  at  this  time 
of  greater  moment   than   the   arts — that  if   we   undertook 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  151 

Buch  recession  to  the  vital  germ  of  national  arts  that  have 
decayed,  we  should  find  a  more  singular  arrest  of  their 
power  in  Ireland  than  in  any  other  European  country. 
For  in  the  eighth  century,  Ireland  possessed  a  school  of 
art  in  her  manuscripts  and  sculpture,  which,  in  many  of 
its  qualilies — apparently  in  all  essential  qualities  of  decor- 
ative invention — was  quite  without  rival ;  seeming  as  if  it 
might  have  advanced  to  the  highest  triumphs  in  archi- 
tecture and  in  painting.  But  there  was  one  fatal  flaw  in 
its  nature,  by  which  it  was  stayed,  and  stayed  with  a 
conspicuousness  of  pause  to  which  there  is  no  parallel:  so 
that,  long  ago,  in  tracing  the  progress  of  European  schools 
from  infancy  to  strength,  I  chose  for  the  students  of 
Kensington,  in  a  lecture  since  published,  two  characteristic 
examples  of  early  art,  of  equal  skill;  but  in  the  one  case, 
skill  which  was  progressive — in  the  other,  skill  which  was 
at  pause.  In  the  one  case,  it  was  work  receptive  of  cor- 
rection— ^hungry  for  correction — and  in  the  other,  work 
which  inherently  rejected  correction.  I  chose  for  them  a 
corrigible  Eve,  and  an  incorrigible  Angel,  and  I  grieve 
to  say  that  the  incorrigible  Angel  was  also  an  Irish  Angel !  * 
124.  And  the  fatal  difference  lay  wholly  in  this.  In  both 
pieces  of  art  there  was  an  equal  falling  short  of  the  needs 
of  fact ;  but  the  Lombardic  Eve  knew  she  was  in  the 
*  See  Tlie  Two  PatTis,  p.  27. 


152  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

wrong,  and  the  Irish  Angel  thought  himself  all  right 
The  eager  Lombardic  sculptor,  though  finnly  insisting  on 
his  childish  idea,  yet  showed  in  the  irregular  broken  touches 
of  the  features,  and  the  imperfect  struggle  for  softer  lines 
in  the  form,  a  perception  of  beauty  and  law  that  he  could 
not  render;  there  was  the  strain  of  effort,  under  conscious 
imperfection,  in  every  line.  But  the  Irish  missal-painter 
had  drawn  his  angel  with  no  sense  of  failure,  in  happy 
complacency,  and  put  red  dots  into  the  palms  of  each 
hand,  and  rounded  the  eyes  into  perfect  circles,  and,  I 
regret  to  say,  left  the  mouth  out  altogether,  with  per- 
fect satisfaction  to  himself. 

125.  May  I  without  offence  ask  you  to  consider  whether 
this  mode  of  arrest  in  ancient  Irish  art  may  not  be  in- 
dicative of  points  of  character  which  even  yet,  in  some 
measure,  arrest  your  national  power?  I  have  seen  much 
of  Irish  character,  and  have  watched  it  closely,  for  I 
have  also  much  loved  it.  And  I  think  the  form  of  fail- 
ure to  which  it  is  most  liable  is  this,  that  being  gener- 
ous-hearted, and  wholly  intending  always  to  do  right, 
it  does  not  attend  to  the  external  laws  of  right,  but 
thinks  it  must  necessarily  do  right  because  it  means  to 
do  80,  and  therefore  does  wrong  without  finding  it  out ; 
and  then  when  the  consequences  of  its  wrong  come 
upon  it,  or  upon  others  counected   with  it,  it  cannot  con- 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  153 

ceive  that  the  wrong  is  in  anywise  of  its  causing  or  of 
its  doing,  but  flies  into  wrath,  and  a  strange  agony  of 
desire  for  justice,  as  feeling  itself  wholly  innocent,  which 
leads  it  farther  astray,  until  there  is  nothing  that  it 
is  not  capable  of  doing  with  a  good  conscience. 

126.  But  mind,  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that,  in  past  or 
present  relations  between  Ireland  and  England,  you  have 
been  wrong,  and  we  right.  Far  from  that,  I  believe 
that  in  all  great  questions  of  principle,  and.  in  all  de- 
tails of  administration  of  law,  you  have  been  usually 
right,  and  we  wrong;  sometimes  in  misunderstanding 
you,  sometimes  in  resolute  iniquity  to  you.  Neverthe- 
less, in  all  disputes  between  states,  though  the  strongest 
is  nearly  always  mainly  in  the  wrong,  the  weaker  is 
often  so  in  a  minor  degree ;  and  I  think  we  sometimes 
admit  the  possibility  of  our  being  in  err->r,  and  you 
never  do. 

127.  And  now,  returning  to  the  broader  question,  what 
these  arts  and  labours  of  life  have  to  teach  us  of  its  mys- 
tery, this  is  the  first  of  their  lessons — that  the  more 
beautiful  the  art,  the  more  it  is  essentially  the  work  of 
people  who  feel  themseloes  wrong; — who  are  striving 
fr»r  the  fulfilment  of  a  law,  and  the  grasp  of  a  loveli- 
ness, which  they  have  not  yet  attained,  "vyhich  they  feel 
even  farther   and    farther    from   attaining,   the  more   they 


154  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

Strive  for  it.  And  yet,  in  still  deeper  sense,  it  is  the 
work  of  people  who  know  also  that  they  are  right.  The 
very  sense  of  inevitable  error  from  their  purpose  marks 
the  perfectness  of  that  purpose,  and  the  continued  sense 
of  failure  arises  from  the  continued  opening  of  the  eyes 
more  clearly  to  all  the  sacredest  laws  of  truth. 

128.  This  is  one  lesson.  The  second  is  a  very  plain,  and 
greatly  precious  one,  namely : — that  whenever  the  arts 
and  labours  of  life  are  fulfilled  in  this  spirit  of  striving 
against  misrule,  and  doing  whatever  we  have  to  do, 
honourably  and  perfectly,  they  invariably  bring  happi- 
ness, as  much  as  seems  possible  to  the  nature  of  man. 
In  all  other  paths,  by  which  that  happiness  is  pursued, 
there  is  diappointment,  or  destruction :  for  ambition  and 
for  passion  there  is  no  rest — no  fruition ;  the  fairest  plea- 
sures of  youth  perish  in  a  darkness  greater  than  their 
past  light ;  and  the  loftiest  and  purest  love  too  often 
does  but  inflame  the  cloud  of  life  with  endless  fire  of 
pain.  But,  ascending  from  lowest  to  highest,  through 
every  scale  of  human  industry,  that  industry  worthily 
followed,  gives  peace.  Ask  the  labourer  in  the  field,  at 
the  forge,  or  in  the  mine ;  ask  the  patient,  delicate- 
fingered  artisan,  or  the  strong-armed,  fiery-hearted  worker 
in  bronze,  and  in  marble,  and  with  the  colours  of  light; 
and  none  of  these,  who  are  true  workmen,  will  ever   teU 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  155 

you,  that  they  have  found  the  law  of  heaven  an  unkind 
one — that  in  the  sweat  of  their  face  they  should  eat 
bread,  till  they  return  to  the  ground;  nor  that  they  ever 
found  it  an  unrewarded  obedience,  if,  indeed,  it  waa 
rendered  faithfully  to  tlie  command  — "  "Whatsoever  thy 
hand  findeth  to  do — do  it  with  thy  might." 

129.  These  are  the  two  great  and  constant  lessons  which 
our  labourers  teach  us  of  the  mystery  of  life.  But  there 
is  another,  and  a  sadder  one,  which  they  cannot  teach  ns, 
which   we   must   read   on   their  tombstones. 

"Do  it  with  thy  might."  There  have  been  myriads 
upon  myriads  of  human  creatures  who  have  obeyed  this 
law — who  have  put  every  breath  and  nerve  of  their  being 
into  its  toil — who  have  devoted  every  hour,  and  exhausted 
every  faculty — who  have  bequeathed  their  unaccomplished 
thoughts  at  death — who  being  dead,  have  yet  spoken,  by 
majesty  of  memory,  and  strength  of  example.  And,  at 
last,  what  has  all  this  "Might"  of  humanity  accomplished, 
in  six  thousand  years  of  labour  and  sorrow  ?  What  has  it 
done  f  Take  the  three  chief  occupations  and  arts  of  men, 
one  by  one,  and  count  their  achievements.  Begin  with 
the  first — the  lord  of  them  all — agriculture.  Six  thousand 
years  have  passed  since  we  were  set  to  till  the  ground, 
from  which  we  were  taken.  How  much  of  it  is  tilled  ? 
llow   much    of    that    which    is,  wisely   or    well  ?     In    tLt 


156  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

very  centre  and  chief  garden  of  Europe — where  the  two 
foi-nis  of  parent  Christianity  have  had  their  fortresses — 
where  the  noble  Catholics  of  the  Forest  Cantons,  and  the 
noble  Protestants  of  the  Vaudois  valleys,  have  maintained, 
for  dateless  ages,  their  faiths  and  liberties — there  the  un- 
checked Alpine  rivers  yet  run  wild  in  devastation  : 
and  the  marshes,  which  a  few  hundred  men  could  re- 
deem with  a  year's  labour,  still  blast  their  helpless  in- 
habitants into  fevered  idiotism.  That  is  so,  in  the  centre 
of  Europe !  While,  on  the  near  coast  of  Africa,  once  the 
Garden  of  the  Hesperides,  an  Arab  woman,  but  a  few 
sunsets  since,  ate  her  child,  for  famine.  And,  with  all 
the  treasures  of  the  East  at  our  feet,  we,  in  our  own 
dominion,  could  not  find  a  few  grains  of  rice,  for  a 
people  that  asked  of  us  no  more ;  but  stood  by,  and 
saw  five   hundred   thousand   of  them  perish   of  hunger. 

130.  Then,  after  agriculture,  the  art  of  king."*,  take  the 
next  head  of  human  arts— weaving  ;  the  art  of  queens,  hon- 
oured of  all  noble  Heathen  women,  in  the  person  of  their 
virgin  goddess — honoured  of  all  Hebrew  women,  by  the 
word  of  their  wisest  king — "  She  layeth  her  hands  to  the 
spindle,  and  her  hands  hold  the  distaff;  she  stretcheth 
out  her  hand  to  the  poor.  She  is  not  afraid  of  the 
snc'V  for  her  household,  for  all  her  household  are  clothed 
with   scarlet.     She    maketh   herself  covering   of    tapestry ; 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  157 

her  clothing  is  silk  and  purple.  She  maketh  fine  linen, 
and  selleth  it.  and  delivereth  girdles  to  the  merchant." 
What  have  we  done  in  all  these  thousands  of  years  with 
this  bright  art  of  Greek  maid  and  Christian  matron  ? 
Six  thousand  years  of  weaving,  and  have  we  learned  to 
weave  ?  Might  not  every  naked  wall  have  been  purple 
with  tapestry,  and  every  feeble  breast  fenced  with  sweet 
colours  from  the  cold  ?  What  have  we  done  ?  Our  fin- 
gers are  too  few,  it  seems,  to  twist  together  some  poor 
covering  for  our  bodies.  We  set  our  streams  to  work 
for  us,  and  choke  the  air  with  fire,  to  turn  our  spinning- 
wheels — and, — are  we  yet  clothed?  Are  not  the  streets  of 
the  capitals  of  Europe  foul  with  sale  of  cast  clouts  and 
rotten  rags  ?  Is  not  the  beauty  of  your  sweet  children 
left  in  wretchedness  of  disgrace,  while,  with  better  honour, 
nature  clothes  the  brood  of  the  bird  in  its  nest,  and  the 
suckling  of  the  wolf  in  her  den  ?  And  does  not  every 
winter's  snow  robe  what  you  have  not  robed,  and  shroud 
what  you  have  not  shrouded ;  and  every  winter's  wind 
bear  up  to  heaven  its  wasted  souls,  to  witness  agamst 
you  hereafter,  by  the  voice  of  their  Christ, — "  I  was 
naked,  and   ye  clothed   me   not  ?  " 

131.  Lastly — take  the  Art  of  Building — the  strongest- 
proudest — most  orderly — most  enduring  of  the  arts  of  mail , 
that,  of    which  the   produce   is   in   the   surest   manner   ao* 


158  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

cumulative,  and  need  not  perish,  or  be  replaced  ;  but  if 
once  well  done,  will  stand  more  strongly  than  the  un- 
balanced rocks — more  prevalently  than  the  crumbling  bills. 
The  art  which  is  associated  with  all  civic  pride  and 
sacred  principle  ;  with  which  men  record  their  power — ■ 
satisfy  their  enthusiasm — make  sure  their  defence — define 
and  make  dear  their  habitation.  And,  in  six  thousand 
years  of  building,  what  have  we  done?  Of  the  greater 
part  of  all  that  skill  and  strength,  no  vestige  is  left,  but 
fallen  stones,  that  encumber  the  fields  and  impede  the 
streams.  But,  from  this  waste  of  disorder,  and  of  time, 
and  of  rage,  what  is  left  to  us?  Constructive  and  pro- 
gressive creatures,  that  we  are,  with  ruling  brains,  and 
forming  hands,  capable  of  fellowship,  and  thirsting  for 
fame,  can  we  not  contend,  in  comfort,  with  the  insects  of 
the  forest,  or,  in  achievement,  with  the  worm  of  the  sea. 
The  white  surf  rages  in  vain  against  the  ramparts  built 
by  poor  atoms  of  scarcely  nascent  life  ;  but  only  ridgea 
of  formless  ruin  mark  the  places  where  once  dwelt  our 
noblest  multitudes.  The  ant  and  the  moth  have  cells 
for  each  of  their  young,  but  our  little  ones  lie  in  festering 
heaps,  in  homes  that  consume  them  like  graves ;  and 
nisrht  by  night,  from  the  corners  of  our  streets,  rises  up 
the  cry  of  the  homeless — "I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took 
me  not  b." 


]VIYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  15S 

132.  Must  it  be  always  thus  ?  Is  our  life  for  ever  to  be 
without  profit — without  possession  ?  Shall  the  strength  of 
its  generations  be  as  barren  as  death ;  or  cast  away  their 
labour,  as  the  wild  figtree  casts  her  untimely  figs  ?  Is  it 
all  a  dream  then — the  desire  of  the  eyes  and  the  pride  of 
life — or,  if  it  be,  might  we  not  live  in  nobler  dream  than 
this?  The  poets  and  prophets,  the  wise  men,  and  the 
scribes,  though  they  have  told  us  nothing  about  a  life  to 
come,  have  told  us  much  about  the  life  that  is  now. 
They  have  had — they  also, — their  dreams,  and  we  have 
laughed  at  them.  They  have  dreamed  of  mercy,  and  of 
justice ;  they  have  dreamed  of  peace  and  good-will ;  they 
have  dreamed  of  labour  undisappointed,  and  of  rest  undis- 
turbed ;  they  have  dreamed  of  fulness  in  harvest,  and 
overflowing  in  store ;  they  have  dreamed  of  wisdom  in 
council,  and  of  providence  in  law ;  of  gladness  of  parents, 
and  strength  of  children,  and  glory  of  grey  hairs.  And 
at  these  visions  of  theirs  we  have  mocked,  and  held  them 
for  idle  and  vain,  unreal  and  unaccomplishable.  What 
have  we  accomplished  with  our  realities  ?  Is  this  what 
has  come  of  our  worldly  wisdom,  tried  against  their  folly? 
this,  our  mightiest  possible,  against  their  impotent  ideal  ? 
or,  have  we  only  wandered  among  the  spectra  of  a  baser 
felicity,  and  chased  phantoms  of  the  tombs,  instead  of 
visions  of  the   Almigthy ;  and   walked   after'  the  imagina 


160  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

tions  of  our  evil  hearts,  instead  of  after  the  counsels  of 
Eternity,  until  our  lives — not  in  the  likeness  of  the  cloud 
of  heaven,  but  of  the  smoke  of  hell — have  beccme  "as  a 
vapour,  that  appeaieth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth 
away  ?  " 

133.  Does  it  vanish  then  ?  Are  you  sure  of  that? — sure, 
that  the  nothingness  of  the  grave  will  be  a  rest  from  thig 
troubled  nothingness ;  and  that  the  coiling  shadow,  which 
disquiets  itself  in  vain,  cannot  change  into  the  smoke  of 
the  toj-ment  that  ascends  for  ever?  Will  any  answer  that 
they  are  sure  of  it,  and  that  there  is  no  fear,  nor  hope, 
nor  desire,  nor  labour,  whither  they  go  ?  Be  it  so ;  will 
you  not,  then,  make  as  sure  of  the  Life  that  now  is,  as 
you  are  of  the  Death  that  is  to  come  ?  Your  hearts  are 
wholly  in  this  world — will  you  not  give  them  to  it  wisely, 
as  well  as  perfectly  ?  And  see,  first  of  all,  that  you  have 
hearts,  and  sound  hearts,  too,  to  give.  Because  you  have 
no  heaven  to  look  for,  is  that  any  reason  that  you  should 
remain  ignorant  of  this  wonderful  and  infinite  earih,  which 
is  firmly  and  instantly  given  you  in  possession  ?  Although 
your  days  are  numbered,  and  the  following  darkness  sure, 
is  it  necessary  that  you  should  share  the  degradation  of 
the  brute,  because  you  are  condemned  to  its  mortality ;  or 
live  the  life  of  the  moth,  and  of  the  worm,  because  you 
are   to  companion   them   in   the   dust?    Not  so;    we  may 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  161 

have  but  a  few  thousands  of  days  to  spend,  perhaps  hun- 
dreds only — perhaps,  tens ;  nay,  the  longest  of  our  time 
and  best,  looked  back  on,  will  be  but  as  a  moment,  as  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye ;  still,  we  are  men,  not  insects ;  we  are 
living  spirits,  not  passing  clouds.  *'He  maketh  the  winds 
His  messengers ;  the  momentary  fire,  His  minister ; "  and 
shall  we  do  less  than  these  f  Let  us  do  the  work  of  men 
while  we  bear  the  form  of  them  ;  and,  as  we  snatch  our 
narrow  portion  of  time  out  of  Eternity,  snatch  also  our 
narrow  inheritance  of  passion  out  of  Immortality — even 
though  our  lives  he  as  a  vapour,  that  appeareth  for  a 
little  time,  and  then  vanish eth  away. 

134.  But  there  are  some  of  you  who  believe  not  this — • 
who  think  this  cloud  of  life  has  no  such  close — that  it  is 
to  float,  revealed  and  illumined,  upon  the  floor  of  heaven, 
in  the  day  when  He  cometh  with  clouds,  and  every  eye 
shall  see  Him.  Some  day,  you  believe,  within  these 
five,  or  ten,  or  twenty  years,  for  every  one  of  us  the 
judgment  will  be  set,  and  the  books  opened.  If  that  be 
true,  far  more  than  tliat  must  be  true.  Is  there  but 
one  day  of  judgment  ?  Wliy,  for  us  every  day  is  a  day 
of  judgment — every  day  is  a  Dies  Irae,  and  writes  its 
irrevocable  verdict  in  the  flame  of  its  West.  Think 
you  that  judgment  waits  till  the  doors  of  the  grave 
are    opened?     It    waits    at    the    doors    of   your    houses— 


162  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

it  waits  at  the  corners  of  your  streets;  we  are  in  the 
midst  of  judgment — the  insects  that  we  crush  are  our 
judges — the  moments  we  fret  away  are  our  judges — 
the  elements  that  feed  us,  judge,  as  they  minister — and 
the  pleasures  that  deceive  us,  judge,  as  they  indulge. 
Let  us,  for  our  lives,  do  the  work  of  Men  while  we  bear 
the  Form  of  them,  if  indeed  those  lives  are  N'ot  as  a 
vapour,  and  do  Not  vanish  away. 

135.  "The  work  of  men"— and  what  is  that?  Well,  we 
may  any  of  us  know  very  quickly,  on  the  condition  of 
being  wholly  ready  to  do  it.  But  many  of  us  are  for 
the  most  part  thinking,  not  of  what  we  are  to  do,  but 
of  what  we  are  to  get;  and  the  best  of  us  are  sunk 
into  the  sin  of  Ananias,  and  it  is  a  mortal  one — we 
want  to  keep  back  part  of  the  price ;  and  we  continu- 
ally talk  of  taking  up  our  cross,  as  if  the  only  harm  ik 
a  cross  was  the  weight  of  it — as  if  it  was  only  a  thing 
to  be  carried,  instead  of  to  be — crucified  upon.  '*They 
that  are  His  have  crucified  the  flesh,  with  the  affections 
and  lusts."  Does  that  mean,  think  you,  that  in  time 
of  national  distress,  of  religious  trial,  of  crisis  for  every 
interest  and  hope  of  humanity — none  of  us  will  cease 
jesting,  none  cease  idling,  none  put  themselves  to  any 
wholesome  work,  none  take  so  much  as  a  tag  of  lac« 
off  their  footmen's  coats,   to   save   the   world  ?      Or  doei 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  163 

It  rather  mean,  that  they  are  ready  to  leave  houses, 
lands,  and  kindreds — yes,  and  life,  if  need  be  ?  Life ! — 
some  of  us  are  ready  enough  to  throw  that  away,  joyless 
as  we  have  made  it.  But  '-^station  in  Life" — how  many 
of  us  are  ready  to  quit  tJiat  f  Is  it  not  always  the  great 
objection,  where  there  is  question  of  finding  something 
useful  to  do — "  We  cannot  leave  our  stations  in  Life  ?  " 

Those  of  us  who  really  cannot — that  is  to  say,  who 
can  only  maintain  themselves  by  continuing  in  some 
business  or  salaried  office,  have  already  something  to  do; 
and  all  that  they  have  to  see  to,  is  that  they  do  it 
honestly  and  with  all  their  might.  But  with  most  people 
who  use  that  apology,  "remaining  in  the  station  of  life 
to  which  Providence  has  called  them,"  means  keeping  all 
the  carriages,  and  all  the  footmen  and  large  houses  they 
can  possibly  pay  for;  and,  once  for  all,  I  say  that  if  ever 
Providence  did  put  them  into  stations  of  that  sort — which 
is  not  at  all  a  matter  of  certainty — ^Providence  is  just 
now  very  distinctly  calling  them  out  again.  Levi's 
station  in  life  was  the  receipt  of  custom;  and  Peter's,  the 
shore  of  Galilee ;  and  Paul's,  the  antechambers  of  the 
High  Priest, — which  "station  in  life"  each  had  to  leave, 
with  brief  notice. 

And,  whatever  our  station  in  life  may  be,  at  this  crisis, 
those   of  us   who   mean  to   fulfil  our   duty  ought,  first,  to 


X64  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

live  on  as  little  as  we  can;  and,  secondly,  to  do  all  the 
wholesome  work  for  it  we  can,  and  to  spend  all  we  can 
spare  in  doing  all  the  sure  good  we  can. 

And  sure  good  is  first  in  feeding  people,  then  in 
dressing  people,  then  in  lodgii-g  people,  and  lastly  in 
rightly  pleasing  people,  with  arts,  or  sciences,  or  any  other 
subject  of  thought. 

136.  I  say  first  in  feeding;  and,  once  for  all,  do  not  let 
yourselves  be  deceived  by  any  of  the  common  talk  of 
'*  indiscriminate  charity."  The  order  to  us  is  not  to  feed 
the  deserving  hungry,  nor  the  industrious  hungry,  nor 
the  amiable  and  well-intentioned  hungry,  but  simply  to 
feed  the  hungry.  It  is  quite  true,  infallibly  true,  that  if 
any  man  will  not  work,  neither  should  he  eat — think  of 
that,  and  every  time  you  sit  down  to  your  dinner,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  say  solemnly,  before  you  ask  a  blessing, 
"How  much  work  have  I  done  to-day  for  my  dinner?" 
But  the  proper  way  to  enforce  that  order  on  those  below 
you,  as  well  as  on  yourselves,  is  not  to  leave  vagabonds 
and  honest  people  to  starve  together,  but  very  distinctly 
to  discern  and  seize  your  vagabond ;  and  shut  your 
vagabond  up  out  of  honest  j^eople's  way,  and  very  sternly 
Ihen  see  that,  until  he  has  worked,  he  does  not  eat.  But 
the  first  thing  is  to  be  sure  you  have  the  food  to  give; 
and,   therefore,   to  enforce   the  oiganization  of  vast  activi- 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  165 

ties  in  agriculture  and  in  commerce,  for  the  production  of 
the  wholesomest  food,  and  proper  storing  and  distribution 
of  it,  so  that  no  famine  shall  any  more  be  possible  among 
civilized  beings.  There  is  plenty  of  work  in  this  business 
alone,  and  at  once,  for  any  number  of  people  who  like  to 
engage  in  it. 

137.  Secondly,  dressing  people — that  is  to  say,  urging 
every  one  within  reach  of  your  influence  to  be  always  neat 
and  clean,  and  giving  them  means  of  being  so.  In  so  far 
as  they  absolutely  refuse,  you  must  give  up  the  effort  with 
respect  to  them,  only  taking  care  that  no  children  within 
your  sphere  of  influence  shall  any  more  be  brought  up 
with  such  habits ;  and  that  every  person  who  is  willing  to 
dress  with  piopriety  shall  have  encouragement  to  do  so. 
And  the  first  absolutely  necessary  step  towards  this  is  the 
gradual  adoption  of  a  consistent  dress  for  different  ranks 
of  persons,  so  that  their  rank  shall  be  known  by  their 
dress ;  and  the  restriction  of  the  changes  of  fashion  within 
certain  limits.  All  which  appears  for  the  present  quite 
impossible;  but  it  is  only  so  far  as  even  difficult  as  it  is 
difficult  to  conquer  our  vanity,  frivolity,  and  desire  to 
appear  what  we  are  not.  And  it  is  not,  nor  ever  shall  be, 
creed  of  mine,  that  these  mean  and  shallow  vices  are 
nnconquerable  by  Christian  women. 

138.  And  then,  thirdly,  lodging  people,  which  you  may 


166  SESAME  AOT)  LILIES. 

think  should  have  been  put  first,  but  I  put  it  th  jd,  because 
we  must  feed  and  clothe  people  where  we  find  them,  and 
lodge  them  afterwards.  And  providing  lodgment  for 
them  means  a  great  deal  of  vigorous  legislation,  and 
cutting  down  of  vested  interests  that  stand  in  the  way, 
and  after  that,  or  before  that,  so  far  as  we  can  get  it, 
thorough  sanitary  and  remedial  action  in  the  houses  that 
we  have;  and  then  the  building  of  more,  strongly,  beau- 
tifully, and  in  groups  of  limited  extent,  kept  in  proportion 
to  their  streams,  and  walled  round,  so  that  there  may  be 
no  festering  and  wretched  suburb  anywhere,  but  clean 
and  busy  street  within,  and  the  open  country  without, 
with  a  belt  of  beautiful  garden  and  orchard  round  the 
walls,  so  that  from  any  part  of  the  city  perfectly  fresh  air 
and  grass,  and  sight  of  far  horizon  might  be  reachable  in 
a  few  minutes'  walk.  This  the  final  aim;  but  in  immediate 
action  every  minor  and  possible  good  to  be  instantly  done, 
when,  and  as,  we  can ;  roofs  mended  that  have  holes  in 
them — fences  patched  that  have  gaps  in  them — walls 
buttressed  that  totter — and  floors  propped  that  shake; 
cleanliness  and  order  enforced  with  our  own  hands  and 
eyes,  till  we  are  breathless,  every  day.  And  all  the  fine 
arts  will  healthily  follow.  I  myself  have  washed  a  flight 
of  stone  stairs  all  down,  with  bucket  and  broom,  in  a 
Bavoy   inn,   where   tliey   hadn't    washed   their  stairs   since 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  167 

they   first    went    up    them?    and   I    never  made   a  better 
sketch  than  that  afternoon. 

139.  These,  then,  are  the  three  first  needs  of  ci\ilized  life; 
and  the  law  for  every  Christian  man  and  woman  is,  that 
they  shall  be  in  direct  service  towards  one  of  these  three 
needs,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with  their  own  special  oc- 
cupation, and  if  tliey  have  no  special  business,  tlien 
wholly  in  one  of  these  services.  And  out  of  such  ex- 
ertion in  plain  duty  all  other  good  will  come  ;  for  in 
this  direct  contention  with  material  evil,  you  will  find 
out  the  real  nature  of  all  evil  ;  you  will  discern  by  the 
various  kinds  of  I'esistance,  what  is  really  the  fault  and 
main  antagonism  to  good  ;  also  you  will  find  the  most 
unexpected  helps  and  profound  lessons  given,  and  truths 
will  come  thus  down  to  us  which  the  speculation  of  all 
our  lives  would  never  have  raised  us  up  to.  You  will 
find  nearly  every  educational  problem  solved,  as  soon  as 
you  truly  want  to  do  something  ;  everybody  will  become 
of  use  in  their  own  fittest  way,  and  will  learn  what  ia 
best  for  them  to  know  in  that  use.  Competitive  exami- 
nation will  then,  and  not  till  then,  be  wholesome,  because 
it  will  be  daily,  and  calm,  and  in  practice  ;  and  on  these 
familiar  arts,  and  mirmte,  but  certain  and  serviceable, 
know^ledges,  will  be  surely  edified  and  sustained  the 
greater   arts   and   splendid   theoretical  sciences. 


168  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

140.  But  much  more  than  this.  On  such  holy  and  simple 
practice  will  be  founded,  indeed,  at  last,  an  infallible  reli- 
gion. The  greatest  of  all  the  mysteries  of  life,  and  the  mosi 
terrible,  is  the  corruption  of  even  the  sincerest  religion, 
which  is  not  daily  founded  on  rational,  effective,  humble, 
and  helpful  action.  Helpful  action,  observe!  for  there  is 
just  one  law,  which  obeyed,  keeps  all  religions  pure — ^for- 
gotten, makes  them  all  false.  Whenever  in  any  religious 
failh,  dark  or  bright,  we  allow  our  minds  to  dwell  upon 
the  points  in  which  we  differ  from  other  people,  we  are 
wrong,  and  in  the  devil's  power.  That  is  the  essence  of 
the  Pharisee's  thanksgiving — "  Lord,  I  thank  thee  that  I 
ara  not  as  other  men  are."  At  every  moment  of  our 
lives  we  should  be  trying  to  find  out,  not  in  what  we 
differ  with  other  people,  but  in  what  we  agree  with 
them ;  and  the  moment  we  find  we  can  agree  as  to  any- 
thing that  sliould  be  done,  kind  or  good,  (and  who  but 
fools  couldn't  ?)  then  do  it  ;  push  at  it  together  ;  you 
can't  quarrel  in  a  side-by-side  push ;  but  the  moment  that 
even  the  best  men  stop  pushing,  and  begin  talking,  they 
mistake  their  pugnacity  for  piety,  and  it's  all  over.  I 
will  not  speak  of  the  crimes  which  in  past  times  have 
been  committed  in  the  name  of  Christ,  nor  of  the  follies 
"which  are  at  this  hour  held  to  be  consistent  with 
obedience   to   Him;  but  I  will  speak  of  the   morbid  cor 


MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS.  169 

ruption  and  waste  of  vital  power  in  religious  sentiment,  by 
which  the  pure  strength  of  that  w^hich  should  be  the  guiding 
soul  of  every  nation,  the  splendour  of  its  youthful  man- 
hood, and  spotless  light  of  its  maidenhood,  is  averted  or 
cast  away.  You  may  see  continually  girls  who  have 
never  been  taught  to  do  a  single  useful  thing  thoroughly ; 
who  cannot  sew,  who  cannot  cook,  who  cannot  cast  an 
account,  nor  prepare  a  medicine,  whose  whole  life  has 
been  passed  either  in  play  or  in  pride ;  you  will  find  girls 
like  these,  when  they  are  earnest-hearted,  cast  all  their 
innate  passion  of  religious  spirit,  which  was  meant  by 
God  to  support  them  through  the  irksomeness  of  daily 
toil,  into  grievous  and  vain  meditation  over  the  meaning 
of  the  great  Book,  of  which  no  syllable  was  ever  yet  to 
be  understood  but  through  a  deed;  all  the  instinctive 
wisdom  and  mercy  of  their  womanhood  made  vain,  and 
the  glory  of  their  pure  consciences  warped  into  fruitless 
agony  concerning  questions  which  the  laws  of  common 
serviceable  life  would  have  either  solved  for  them  in  an 
instant,  or  kept  out  of  their  way.  Give  such  a  girl  any 
true  work  that  will  make  her  active  in  the  dawn,  and 
weary  at  night,  with  the  consciousness  that  her  fellow- 
creatures  have  indeed  been  the  better  for  her  day,  and 
the  powerless  sorrow  of  her  enthusiasm  will  transform 
itself  into  a  majesty  of  radiant  and  beneficent  peace. 


170  SESAME  AND  LILIES. 

So  with  our  youths.  We  once  taught  ttem  to  make 
Latin  verses,  and  called  them  educated ;  now  we  teach 
them  to  leap  and  to  row,  to  hit  a  ball  with  a  bat,  and 
call  them  educated.  Can  they  plough,  can  they  sow, 
can  they  plant  at  the  right  time,  or  build  with  a  steady 
hand?  Is  it  the  effort  of  their  lives  to  be  chaste, 
knightly,  faithful,  holy  in  thought,  lovely  in  word  and 
deed  ?  Indeed  it  is,  with  some,  nay  with  many,  and  the 
strength  of  England  is  in  them,  and  the  hope ;  but  we 
have  to  turn  their  courage  from  the  toil  of  war  to  the 
toil  of  mercy;  and  their  intellect  from  dispute  of  words 
to  discernment  of  things;  and  their  knighthood  from  the 
errantry  of  adventure  to  the  state  and  fidelity  of  a  kingly 
power.  And  then,  indeed,  shall  abide,  for  them,  and 
for  us  an  incorruptible  felicity,  and  an  infallible  religion  ; 
shall  abide  for  us  Faith,  no  more  to  be  assailed  by  temp- 
tation, no  more  to  be  defended  by  wrath  and  by  fear; 
— shall  abide  with  us  Hope,  no  more  to  be  quenched  by 
the  years  that  overwhelm,  or  made  ashamed  by  the 
shadows  that  betray ;  —  bhall  abide  for  us,  and  with  us, 
the  greatest  of  these ;  the  abiding  will,  the  abiding  name, 
of  our  Father.     For  the  greatest  of  these,  is  Charity 

THE    EN1X 


